MADAME  MARGOT 


.MADAME  MARGOT, 

A  Grotesque  Legend 
of  Old  Charleston 


BY 
JOHN  BENNETT 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
BEXNETT 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO 


.  .  .  You,  and  you,  and  you, 

.  .  .  who  have  gone  greatly  here 

In  friendship,  making  some  delight,  some  true 

Song  in  the  dark,  some  story  against  fear. 

.  .  .  Lovers  yet  shall  tell  the  nightingale 
Sometimes  a  song  that  we  of  old  time  made, 
And  gossips  gathered  at  the  twilight  ale 
Shall  say,  "Those  two  were  friends,"  or  "Unafraid 
Of  bitter  thoughts  were  those  because  they  loved 
Better  than  most." 

.  .  .  There  in  the  midst  of  all  those  words  shall  be 
Our  names,  our  ghosts,  our  immortality. 

— JOHN  DRINK  WATER. 


The  above  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 


463981 


MADAME  MARGOT 


MADAME  MARGOT 

In  an  age  so  glorious,  so  rich  and 
fine,  and  so  be-starred  with  splendor 
that  one  almost  forgets  the  bottomless 
abyss  into  which  it  plunged  at  last, 
there  lived  a  woman  in  Charleston  of 
whom  a  very  odd  story  is  told. 

The  languid,  lovely,  tired  old  town 
was  then  a  city  brave  and  gay,  with 
Mediterranean  manners  and  Caribbean 
ways. 

The  perfume  of  ten  thousand  flowers 
drifted  upon  the  winds,  which  came  and 
went  over  a  thousand  gardens,  ebbing 
and  flowing  like  the  tide. 

Clouds  of  snowy  gold  and  roses  rolled 
3 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

across  ike  sky,  .likfe.  the  vast  rotundas 
of  a  city  builded  of  colored  ivory. 
Slowly  rising  overhead,  in  windy  and 
ethereal  masses,  they  stood,  carvings  of 
pale  porphyry  upon  a  turquoise  wall. 
The  earth  was  transfigured  with  beauty. 

It  was  a  golden  age,  when  all  things 
were  fair;  nothing  had  grown  old;  even 
the  tragic  and  the  terrible  were  comely 
then.  Wonder  lay  on  everything. 
Merely  to  exist  was  to  be  happy.  It 
was  a  world  of  unextinguished  youth; 
life  was  brimful  to  the  lips  with  delight. 

In  the  gardens  rare  flowers  bloomed, 
and  rare  fruits  ripened, — pomegranates, 
oranges,  medlars,  figs,  jujubes,  and  the 
purple  Indian  peach;  and  among  the 
flowers,  like  winged  flames,  small  and 
bright,  sped  the  harlequins,  the  painted 
nonpareils,  delicately  beating  the  soft 
wind  with  their  pied  wings;  while  in 
4 


MADAME  MARGOT 

the  pomegranate-tree,  among  the  dull 
bronze  fruit,  the  mocking-bird  sang  his 
love  and  rapture.  Through  the  green- 
hedged  close,  women,  beautiful  and 
stately,  paced  the  shade,  with  men  be 
side  them,  slender  and  straight,  passion 
ate  and  haughty,  with  fierce,  bright 
eyes  as  ardent  as  the  goshawk's  and  as 
bold;  and  lovely  girls,  with  dark  hair 
and  skins  of  alabaster,  as  graceful  and 
as  timid  as  fawns,  and  with  fawn's  eyes, 
slipped  among  the  green  leaves  like 
flowers  alive. 

Those  were  charmed  days  indeed. 
The  town  has  changed  since  then.  The 
world  seems  to  have  grown  weary  and 
gray,  and  the  hearts  of  men  bitter.  The 
young  were  younger  then ;  the  old  not 
so  sorry  for  everything  as  they  have 
been  since.  Then,  somehow,  it  seemed 
to  be  always  summer  morning,  morn- 
5 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

ing  before  the  sun  had  burned  the  world 
to  a  dun  crisp  with  his  meridian  heat, 
scorching  bitter  and  blinding  bright; 
before  the  advent  of  gasping  afternoon 
with  its  languid  leafage  and  evapor 
ated  sap.    The  calendar  seemed  to  have 
paused  among  the  daffodils,  between 
the  jessamine  and  the  June,  in  that 
paradise  of  the  year.    The  delicate  and 
virginal  camellia  bloomed  then,  untar 
nished  by  rough  wind  or  rain;  its  petals 
were  sweet,  which  since  then  have  grown 
,so  bitter.     The  elm-trees  did  not  then 
I  bloom  thrice  for  one  green  coat.    And 
;  no  one  ever  paused  to  think  that  no 
1  good  and  lovely  thing  exists  on  earth 
without  its  corresponding  shadow. 

The  world  was  full  of  the  sound  of 
sweet,  flute-like  voices  of  young  women 
calling  after  their  lovers ;  and  the  sing 
ing  of  small  birds  made  slender,  pleas- 
6 


MADAME  MARGOT 

ant  melodies  among  the  cool  myrtles. 
Life  was  simpler;  perhaps  more  child 
like  though'  more  passionate.  Two  who 
loved  each  other  might  walk  together, 
hand  in  hand,  along  the  path,  singing 
their  happiness,  without  reproach,  save, 
perchance,  from  some  lugubrious,  gray- 
bearded  presbyter  mourning,  among 
mossy  tombstones,  life's  evanescence. 

And  happy  youth  was  without  a 
fault,  unless  it  were  a  trivial  one,  some 
peche  mignon,  a  guileless,  guiltless,  girl 
ish  sin,  like  kissing  oneself  in  the  look 
ing-glass  for  lack  of  another  lover. 

In  all  the  town  there  were  none  so 
pretty,  none  so  graceful  or  so  sweet,  as 
the  golden  girls  of  San  Domingo. 
They  flowed  along  the  windy  streets, 
their  turbans  nodding,  like  a  stream  of 
tulips.  They  fluttered  down  the  byways 
in  their  white  muslin  dresses  like  bevies 
7 


MADAME  MARGOT 

of  butterflies.  The  loveliness  of  their 
slender  bodies  and  the  beauty  of  their 
youthful  faces  were  far  beyond  all  dull 
description;  they  were  a  bed  of  tiger- 
lilies  in  the  sun.  The  earth  loved  the 
tread  of  their  flying  feet,  which  seemed 
to  be  forever  dancing  pastourelles ;  and 
the  narrow  lanes  of  the  city  laughed 
with  the  lilt  of  their  Creole  tongue. 


Among  the  golden  San  Domingans 
the  loveliest  of  all  admittedly  was  Mar 
guerite  Lagoux,  the  milliner,  by  her 
patronage  called  Rita,  by  her  familiars 
Margoton,  by  envious  rivalry  Madame 
Margot;  and,  after  all  was  over  and 
done,  known  merely  as  Old  Mother  Go- 
go. 

Hers  was  glorious  physical  loveliness 
in  its  fullest  maturity.  It  was  in  an 
8 


MADAME  MARGOT 

hour  of  inspiration  the  indolent  god  of 
beauty  drew  the  lines  on  which  her  body 
was  built. 

Her  passionate,  rich-colored,  hand 
some  face  was  like  a  line  from  an  old 
enchantment  which  took  men's  souls 
captive,  then  cast  them  away  without 
the  least  regret,  or  with  a  Circean  spell 
turned  them  into  beasts.  Her  neck  was 
a  deep-colored,  ivory  tower  poised  per 
fectly  over  her  breast.  The  dazzling,N 
orange-tawny  skin  of  her  broad  bust 
turned  to  golden-russet  before  it 
reached  her  cheeks,  and  was  there 
flushed  to  dusky  rose,  like  the  skin  of  a 
ruddy-gold  peach.  In  the  burnt  splen 
dor  of  her  cheek  the  darkly  eloquent 
blood  in  her  veins  made  its  golden  proc 
lamation.  Her  mouth  was  long  and 
strangely  curved  like  a  retroverted 
bow;  the  lips  of  a  queer  fruit-color,  not 
9 


MADAME  MARGOT 

rcrimson,  carmine,  nor  magenta,  but  a 
Jittle  of  all  three.  The  upper  lip  was 
'brief  to  a  fault,  and  curled  back  on  it 
self  like  a  rich-pulped  fruit  which  has 
parted  in  ripening.  The  full  under-lip 
cast  a  heavier  shade  than  the  lips  the  old 
masters  chose,  when  they  painted  a  pic- 
Jture  of  the  Madonna.  Her  hair,  like 
a  dark,  uncertain  cloud,  fell  down  in 
heavy  coils,  gathered  and  knotted  at 
the  nape  of  the  neck,  bound  there  in  a 
golden  net;  or  lay  in  an  unfilleted 
band  across  the  broad,  low  brow,  drawn 
back  into  braids  over  her  ears,  or  col 
lected  into  a  turban  tied  with  peculiar 
dexterity.  Her  body  was  cast  in  a  glo 
rious  mould :  she  was  tall ;  in  figure  per 
fect,  and  full  of  a  stately,  tiger-like 
grace,  the  envy  of  other  women.  She. 
moved,  when  she  walked,  as  an  empress 
might  if  heaven  but  gave  her  grace,  with 
10 


MADAME  MARGOT 

an  exquisite,  perfect  motion,  devoid  of 
every  appearance  of  effort, — not  strid 
ing,  but  seeming  to  glide  like  a  swan 
swimming  on  untroubled  water.  In  the 
sluggish  grace  of  her  heavy  lips  and 
deep-lidded,  brooding  eyes,  she  was  as 
full  of  an  indolent,  sleepy  beauty  as 
midsummer  afternoon.  Dressed  in 
bright  merino,  crimson,  orange,  and 
blue,  with  a  kerchief  of  blood-colored 
silk  around  her  head  bound  in  oriental 
fashion,  beads  of  amber  around  her 
neck,  and  in  each  ear  a  hoop  of  gold, 
she  looked  like  a  great  golden  lily  dustecf 
with  sang-dieu. 

One  day  she  was  the  lily;  the  next  a 
yellow  rose;  and  the  next  she  was  a 
tulip, — gold,  crimson,  purple  and  black. 
She  was  a  Caribbean  summer  incarnate," 
of  flower-blooms,  thunder  and  gold.  The 
passing  traveler,  seeing  her,  stopped 
11 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

while  he  caught  his  breath.  There  was 
something  about  her  commanded  atten 
tion  besides  her  remarkable  beauty.  One 
spoke  of  Ducie  Poincignon  casually; 
but  one  spoke  of  Rita  Lagoux  with  an 
accent. 


Of  all  the  milliners  of  her  day  Margot 
was  first  beyond  compare.  Her  taste 
was  perfect;  her  instinct  for  color  was 
never  at  fault;  her  choice  of  fabrics  ex 
quisite.  None  equaled  her  in  dexterity; 
she  was  like  a  marvelous  spider  weav 
ing  webs  of  gossamer.  Those  who 
sought  beauty  found  it;  her  patrons 
were  patrician;  all  of  the  very  best  em 
ployed  her  art;  she  had  no  successful 
competitor ;  beside  her  Eloise  Couesnon 
was  esteemed  but  maladroit. 

Margot's  shop  was  in  King  street, 
12 


MADAME  MARGOT 

near  Mignot's  Garden,  a  little  above 
the  Bend.  She  lived  in  a  little  alley 
known  as  Lilac  lane,  a  narrow,  crooked, 
private  path  between  two  large  es 
tates,  which  rambled  into  the  inter 
space  like  a  brown  brook  into  a  wood. 
Beneath  high  green  hedges  it  wandered 
into  the  solitude,  growing  narrower  as 
it  went,  until  the  hedge  boughs,  meet 
ing,  knit  themselves  together,  interlac 
ing  their  elastic,  leafy  twigs.  There  the 
baffled  foot-path  seemed  to  lose  its  way 
and  to  abandon  every  purpose  for  which 
foot-paths  are  designed,  ran  on  a  little, 
hesitated,  crept  on  again  uncertainly, 
then  gave  up  hope  and  disappeared  in  a 
green  perplexity.  The  unfamiliar  trav 
eler  paused  here,  bewildered,  and 
turned  back  to  find  a  bolder  thorough 
fare;  familiar  feet  alone  pressed  on 
through  Lilac  lane. 
13 


- 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

Where  the  strait  way  vanished  into 
the  wilderness  stood  Margot's  cottage, 
tucked  snug  as  a  plum  stone  in  a  plum. 
Around  it  was  a  garden  hedged  by  box 
and  bay.  Of  all  the  hedges  in  Lilac 
lane  the  highest  were  Margot's.  They 
rose  around  her  garden  in  an  impene 
trable  thicket,  tall,  dark-tangled,  dense 
and  old,  their  green  tops  tossing  against 
the  blue  beyond  the  reach  of  the  hedg- 
er's  bill.  Within  lay  a  little  tranquil 
space,  withdrawn  alike  from  curious 
gaze  and  the  town's  brawl,  and  over 
shadowed  by  the  wide  boughs  of  two 
great  magnolias,  whose  drowsy  shade 
fell  heavily  on  the  sleepy  oleanders  and 
over  the  rows  of  tulips  below,  that  lifted 
up  their  golden  cups  and  filled  the  air 
with  odor.  Here  day  and  night  flowed 
by  in  undisturbed  serenity ;  all  noise  was 
hushed  and  tumult  quelled;  the  shyest 
14 


MADAME  MARGOT 

wild  birds  nested  here  in  perfect  confi 
dence,  fear  cast  away  and  foes  forgot. 
No  place  in  all  the  town  seemed  more  se 
cure  from  rude  intrusion.  No  appari 
tion  came  by  night,  no  terror  by  day;  so 
quiet  it  was,  so  full  of  peace,  it  seemed 
a  sanctuary  withdrawn  from  the  inter 
rupting  clash  and  rude  alarms  of  the 
troubled  world, — its  tranquillity  that  of 
a  convent  close,  with  little,  distant,  ring 
ing  bells,  recurrent  chimes  and  subdued 
voices,  muffled  by  distance,  as  of  nuns 
chanting  an  office  in  the  peaceful  choir 
of  a  green-nooked  nunnery. 


Margot  Lagoux  had  a  daughter;  her 
name  was  Gabrielle. 

Though  Margot  was  lovely,  Gabrielle 
was  lovelier.  They  differed  in  beauty 
as  pompadour-pink  differs  from  brier- 
15 


MADAME  MARGOT 

rose.  Margot's  was  a  golden  beauty; 
Gabrielle's  an  ivory  loveliness.  Mar- 
got  was  a  pottery  figurine  moulded 
with  marvelous  skill;  Gabrielle  a  statu 
ette  of  exquisite  porcelain.  Margot  was 
like  the  summer  sun,  dazzling,  opulent, 
sumptuous;  Gabrielle  like  the  young 
spring  moon  in  her  slender  loveliness; 
the  lines  of  her  flowed  one  into  the  other 
like  the  lines  of  a  song.  Her  hands 
were  delicate  and  fine,  their  touch  as 
light  as  flowers  blown  by  the  wind, 
which  drift  like  a  whisper  across  the 
face  of  the  passer-by.  Her  feet  were 
arched  like  a  Spanish  girl's;  her  an 
kles  were  the  loveliest  things  that  ever 
sandal-ribbon  bound;  she  walked  like 
the  wind  of  an  April  morning  through 
meadows  after  rain. 

Her  face,  with  its  delicate  high  cheek 
bones,  was  like  the  fair  flower  of  Nor- 
16 


MADAME  MARGOT 

mandy ;  but  her  beauty  was  not  West 
ern,  'twas  Eastern;  it  was  like  the  pale 
Persian  roses  which  blow  by  the  gray- 
marbled  waterways  among  the  fallen 
pillars  of  the  forgotten  gardens  of 
Istakhr, — roses  of  yesterday,  full  of 
yesterday's  unbearable  loveliness,  yes 
terday's  happiness,  yesterday's  tragedy, 
—fragrant  with  passionate,  heart-break 
ing  perfume,  piercingly  sweet,  with  the 
pathos  of  swift-passing  beauty,  far 
keener  than  that  of  ruins  and  age.  She 
was  of  a  loveliness  such  as  sometimes 
comes  out  of  India  unburned  by  the  In 
dian  sun,  of  which  dreamers  make 
dreams  of  unforgettable  beauty. 

Her  slender  young  body  was  like  a 
piece  of  perfect  ivory  laid  away  to  be 
carved.  Her  long,  dark,  tangled  eye 
lashes  fell  upon  her  cheeks  like  sudden 
gusts  of  darkening  rain ;  her  cheeks  were 
17 


MADAME  MARGOT 

japonica-color;  her  lips  pale  pomegran 
ate-red;  her  hair  ebony;  her  temples 
were  traced  with  crocus-blue. 

Her  cheeks  japonica-color?  They 
were  the  hue  of  peach  flowers  at  dusk: 
God  who  gave  them  knew  whence  came 
both  peach  flower  color  and  dusk. 

At  every  breath  there  came  and  went 

beneath  her  transparent  skin  a  shadowy 

=-   crimson  under-dusk,  ebbing  and  flowing 

with  the  beat  of  her  heart  like  a  somber, 

twilit  tide, — San  Domingo's  sang  de 

^crepuscule;  and  through  her  fingers  the 

sunlight  shone  with  a  golden  radiance 

like  the  glow  of  a  rose  through  a  glass 

^  of  madeira. 

She  might  have  been  sister  to  Sche 
herazade  in  her  exquisite,  aquiline,  high 
born  loveliness,  a  patrician  beauty 
strangely  like  that  of  old  French  ro 
mance.  Far  and  away  beyond  compare 
18 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

she  was  the  loveliest  girl  in  St.  Finbar's 
parish ;  and  the  faces  of  the  young  girls 
in  St.  Finbar's  made  that  ancient,  dim, 
gray  parish  bloom  like  the  gardens  of 
Paradise. 

God,  who  knows  everything,  knows 
whence  she  had  her  exquisite,  slender 
body,  her  aristocratic  face,  the  dusky 
crimson  tide,  the  touch  of  fantasy  which 
made  her  lovely  as  a  strain  of  wild,  pas-  / 
sionate  music  played  on  the  deep  strings 
of  a  gipsy  violin. 

For,  as  the  rarest  beauty  remains  im- 1  .' 
perfect  without  a  touch  of  strangeness,  j 
without  something  to  haunt  and  to  fret 
the  mind,  forbidding  it  to  forget,  there 
was  a  something  almost,  if  not  quite, 
fantastic,   in   Gabrielle's   loveliness — a 
touch  of  irregularity  difficult  to  define — 
making    her    beauty   more    significant 
through  being  peculiar,  more  poignant 
19 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

through  being  strange.  Something  in 
definite  and  conjectural  tinged  her  be 
ing;  the  ghost  of  a  vaguely  intricate  and 
tragical  implication  beneath  her  bright 
young  innocence  lurked  shadowy  and 
inalign.  Had  her  beauty  been  less  per 
fect  this,  perhaps,  had  been  less  notable. 
Revealed  in  a  casual  attitude,  for  a  mo 
ment  startling  in  vividness,  now  for  a 
moment  it  was  lost,  and  now  stole  forth 
again  in  the  stress  of  unstudied  emotion 
to  accent  a  passing  mood. 

As  one  who,  looking  into  her  mirror, 
sees  a  face  there  not  her  own,  Margot 
perceived  in  her  daughter's  face  an  in 
tricately  blended  likeness,  to  banish 
which  into  forgetfulness  she  strove  des 
perately  in  vain, — the  recollection  of  a 
wild,  sweet,  irrevocable  hour  whose 
memory  was  fear.  Gabrielle's  beauty 
made  her  tremble. 

20 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

It  is  a  perilous  privilege  for  a  girl  to 
possess  loveliness  rising  above  her  sta 
tion  in  life;  there  is  a  price  always  to  be 
paid  for  it,  sorrow  the  common  fee ;  such 
a  heritage  of  beauty  often  proves  but  a 
legacy  of  shame, — a  beauty  built  for  de 
struction,  a  loveliness  for  scorn;  hag 
gard  wisdom  reaps  in  tears  what  inno 
cence  sowed  with  laughter. 

There   was    a   thought   from   which 
Margot  shrank  as  from  a  draught  of 
poison:  Gabrielle  degraded  and  deso 
late.     There  was  nothing  to  her  more^ 
precious  than  her  daughter's  innocence;, 
nothing   so   important   as  her  earthly 
happiness ;  these  seemed  to  Margot  even 
more  necessary  than  her  eternal  peace. 
Yet  ever  a  shadow  hung  over  her 
child,  from  cradle  to  grave;  her  delicate 
grace  and  refinement  were  signatures 
of  dread.    Margot's  eyes  hunted  from 
21 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

side  to  side  as  do  a  deer's  hard  pressed 
by  the  dogs — can  one  elude  destiny? 

Where  were  the  lovely  and  the  fair 
she  had  known  in  her  own  youth?  Dead, 
long  ago;  the  graveyard  sand  lay  cold 
upon  their  lips;  their  passion  and  their 
sweetness  were  forgotten  long  ago. 
Margot  knew  that  youth  and  summer 
night  are  made  for  ecstasy.  She  knew, 
too,  that  in  forgotten  graveyards  are 
many  unmarked  graves  of  hapless 
beauty.  Looking  into  the  mirror  where 
life  is  stripped  of  its  illusions,  and  truth 
stands  stark  and  bare  in  its  unmitigated 
ugliness,  panic  terror  seized  Margot. 

Was  there  no  refuge,  no  escape,  nor 
safety  anywhere;  no  retreat,  nor  har 
bor,  but  in  hopeless  longing;  always 
the  far-off  lightning  and  threatening  of 
storm?  Peering  into  the  future  she 
was  filled  with  apprehension.  In 
22 


MADAME  MARGOT 

dreams  she  saw  Gabrielle's  innocence 
hanging  over  a  black  abyss;  in  dreams 
saw, a  fawn  torn  by  ravening  wolves v 
She  awoke,  starting  up,  crying  out! 
There  was  nothing  but  the  night. 
Yet  she  arose  from  her  bed,  and, 
crouched  by  her  crucifix,  prayed  for  her 
daughter  as  she  never  had  prayed  for 
herself. 


At  adolescence  Gabrielle  was  a  vision^ 
of  delight.  In  temperament  she  was 
ardent  as  is  a  summer  shower,  which 
gives,  when  it  gives,  all  that  it  has  to 
give,  in  a  rush  of  wind  and  rain.  Un 
spoiled  by  knowledge,  unruined  by 
folly,  too  innocent  to  be  perplexed  by 
life's  anxieties,  her  soul  mistook  Earth 
for  the  pathway  to  Paradise,  and  noth 
ing  as  yet  had  discovered  her  error. 
23 


MADAME  MARGOT 

With  her  each  hour  began  afresh  the 
tale  of  life,  a  long,  sweet,  glad  surprise. 

Rose-winged  days  and  golden  nights 
were  come  to  Gabrielle,  whose  feet  stood 
at  the  smiling  gate  of  the  Primrose 
Way.  But  M argot's  days  and  nights 
were  filled  with  passionate  anxiety,  as 
with  increasing  doubts  and  fears  she 
confronted  destiny. 

The  inner  house-door  gave  upon  a 
little  paved  court,  where  two  twisted 
old  fig-trees  grew,  many-branched  can 
delabra,  tipped  in  spring  with  green- 
leaved  lights.  Green-leaved  shadows 
wavered  below  on  a  duck-pool's  marble 
bowl,  stained  green  from  the  copper 
tenons  which  tied  its  stones  together. 
Here  ducks  praised  Jove  with  yellow 
bills,  and  splashed  viridian  wings.  In 
the  pool,  glimmering,  one  saw  the  stuc 
coed  cottage-wall,  on  the  irregular  sur- 
24 


MADAME  MARGOT 

face  of  which  old  colors  showed  in 
broken  chequers  through  the  new  until 
the  wall  was  patched  with  unpremedi 
tated  beauty.  Across  the  pool  the  sil 
very  sunlight  glimmered  like  a  streak 
of  flame.  But  the  fairest  thing  reflected 
there  was  Gabrielle,  dancing  on  the  old 
stones  which  paved  the  court, — dances 
fantastic  as  her  mood ;  sarabands  to  the 
stately  rhythm  of  odd  old  songs,  delib 
erately  slow ;  canzons  whose  pathos  was 
lost  in  a  pirouette;  minuets  which  mi 
micked  the  swallows  overhead  with  their 
swift  glissades  among  the  trees  and  un 
dulating  sweeps  among  the  flowers, — 
snatching  the  poppies  as  she  passed,  and 
thrusting  them  in  her  hair,  and  pausing 
at  last  like  a  wind-blown  flower  above 
her  reflection  in  the  pool, — Gabrielle, 
singing  old  songs  by  the  world  forgot 
ten, — strains  of  wild  beauty,  that  by 
25 


MADAME  MARGOT 

wayward  loveliness  have  a  peculiar 
power  to  please,  with  old  melodies, 
alluring  and  sweet;  songs  such  as 
long  ago  stole  the  souls  of  saints  de 
termined  upon  salvation,  and  ga^ 
themes  for  many  troubadour  lays,  <  f 
which,  though  all  are  lovely,  the  greater 
part  are  sad,  being  memories  of  love1!- 
ness  departed  into  the  dust :  one  of  lif  j's 
paradoxes,  that  the  memory  of  bea  ity 
vshould  be  bitter. 

Here,  remote  from  the  curious  world, 
preserved  by  the  cloistral  hedges  from 
prying  indiscretion,  flowed  her  secluded 
existence.  Few  ever  saw  her.  Sujh  as 
by  chance  observed  her  through  some 
green  interstice,  dazzled  by  her  beauty, 
hurried  off  to  spread  the  tale  of  an  en 
chanted  princess  in  an  enchanted  wood ; 
hedge-balked  and  bewildered,  few  had 
ever  seen  her  twice;  by  which  she  had 
26 


MADAME  MAKGOT 

been  the  more  thought  of  through  being 
the  less  seen. 

Many  had  sought  the  courtyard;  but 
none  had  found  the  way.  Margot  kept 
"  a  solitude  lest  Gabrielle  suffer  cor- 
r^ption,  and  around  her  maintained  a 
v  ritable  nunnery  of  care,  hovered  over 
hqr,  and  kept  her  as  close  withdrawn  as 
a  i  -ovice  in  a  convent-garth. 

,  "ut  beauty  cannot  be  sequestered  al 
ways  safely  anywhere.  Cloistral  life  is 
very,  well  for  souls  of  cloistral  nature 
and  f  f  the  convent  sort ;  but  youth  and 
spring  hate  convents,  and  will  have 
life's^ novitiate,  or  none.  There  is  a  crev 
ice  in  every  hedge,  no  matter  how  tall 
or  how  thick  it  may  be,  and  through  it, 
ever,  Gabrielle  peeps. 


Spring  followed  winter ;  May's  warm 

27 


MADAME  MARGOT 

slow,  yellow,  moonlit  nights  were  come. 

Then  Gabrielle  grew  tired  and  white. 
Her  hand  became  tremulous;  her  light 
foot  stumbled;  she  left  off  dancing  in 
the  garden.  She  sighed  wistfully;  her 
song  ceased ;  her  mouth  showed  scarcely 
a  smile's  wasted  ghost.  Her  eyes,  like 
those  of  a  wounded  creature,  followed 
everywhere;  her  tears  flowed  at  noth 
ing.  She  grew  as  languid  as  a  wither 
ing  flower.  The  light  of  her  seemed 
going  out.  The  pallor  of  her  face  and 
the  feverish  luster  of  her  eyes  startled 
and  frightened  Margot. 

Days  dragged  a  laggard  length; 
night  still  more  oppressed  her.  She  lay 
awake,  whispering  with  dry  lips  she 
knew  not  what;  calling  she  knew  not 
whom;  her  trembling  hands  pressed 
against  her  breast.  Fancies  for  which 
she  found  no  name,  thoughts  for  which 
28 


MADAME  MARGOT 

she  had  no  words,  and  visions  inexpres 
sible,  would  not  let  her  sleep.  Night 
after  night  she  lay  awake,  consuming 
the  hours  with  wonder;  or,  if  she  slept, 
awoke  in  tears,  fell  asleep  to  tears 
again,  and  waking,  tear-wet,  trem 
bling,  with  darkened  lids  and  drawn 
face,  grew  daily  worse. 

Vague,  moody  wants  annoyed  her; 
the  night  was  harassed  by  melancholy 
dreams;  the  day  vexed  with  formless 
fancies. 

Walking  alone  in  the  garden,  answer- 
less  questionings  beset  and  frightened 
her;  she  listened  where  there  was  noth 
ing  to  be  heard ;  stared  where  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen;  found  peace  no 
where. 

Her  heart  ached  with  unreasoning 
pain;  she  grew  as  gusty  as  a  storm;  the 
speechless,  inexplicable  wonder  within 
29 


MADAME  MABGOT 

her    breast    throbbed    like   a    festered 
thorn. 

Margot  too  well  knew)  the  cause: 
there  was  but  one  alleviation. 


Spring,  with  its  universal  song,  from 
grove  and  garden  lifted  up  its  deathless 
melody  of  bloomy  verdure  and  warm- 
breathed  sweetness.  All  living  crea 
tures  voiced  the  universal  theme: 
"Rejoice  with  the  partner  of  thine  heart 
in  the  happy  days  of  thy  youth!" 

The  blue  dove  moaned  out  his  heart's 
desire ;  the  copper  beetle  wooed  and  won 
his  lady  in  the  dust;  butterflies  and 
dragon-flies  glittered  in  the  wind,  happy 
in  their  airy  ecstasy — they  fluttered 
among  the  hedges ;  they  sported  among 
the  flowers — and  all  the  earth  rejoiced 
in  having  its  heart's  desire.  Thrush  and 
30 


MADAME  MARGOT 

mocker  sang,  "Passion,  passion  .  .  . 
heart-breaking  passion!"  to  their  pretty 
feathered  paramours.  From  every 
spray  the  vireo  cried  shrill,  in  shreds  of 
melody,  "Heart's  desire!  Heart's  de 
sire!"  In  the  fragrant  green-bay  the 
painted  bunting's  love-call  rang  inces 
santly;  while  from  the  tufted  grove 
arose  the  stirring  chant  of  earth's  uni 
versal  choir,  the  canticle,  all  passionate 
and  shrill,  of  "Love,  love,  love!"  and  yet 
again  of  "Love!" 

How  can  one  keep  it  from  the  heart 
of  youth,  that,  all  unknowing,  yet  numb 
with  longing,  breathlessly  awaits  its 
coming,  and  trembles  like  a  leaf  with 
the  wordless  yearning  of  unrecognized 
desire. 

Gabrielle  was  intoxicated  with  the 
passion  of  her  own  heart,  without  an 
object  or  an  aim;  her  throat  was  almost 
31 


MADAME  MARGOT 

choked  with  youth's  sweet,  innocent  de 
sire;  and,  ever,  within  her  shaking 
heart,  the  questioning  wonder  grew. 

"Mother,"  she  said  wistfully,  "what 
is  it  fills  the  world  with  music  day  and 
night?  What  is  it  makes  the  whole 
world  sing?" 

"Happiness,"  replied  Margot,  "and 
joy  of  the  spring." 

"Happiness?"  rejoined  Gabrielle. 
"If  it  be  happiness,  why  does  it  make 
my  heart  ache?  Why  does  spring  hurt 
me  so?" 

Margot,  startled,  sat  staring,  wrung 
with  sudden  fear. 

"And  what  is  this  love  of  which  every 
one  sings — we  women  most  of  all?" 

"The  source  of  all  wretchedness. 
Leave  it  alone!"  cried  Margot.  She 
looked  at  her  daughter  in  terror. 

"But,"  replied  Gabrielle,  wondering, 
32 


MADAME  MARGOT 

"if  love  be  the  source  of  all  wretched 
ness,  why  is  its  song  so  sweet?" 

"Because  fools  have  their  folly!" 
cried  Margot.  "Love-songs  are  sweet 
to  a  lover,  as  folly  is  dear  to  a  fool. 
Worship  thy  God,"  she  said  harshly, 
"and  leave  foolishness  to  the  fool!" 

"Love— foolishness?"  said  Gabrielle, 
puzzled.  "You  told  me  that  God  is 
love!"  She  turned  the  riddle  over  and 
over  in  her  mind. 

"What  ails  you?"  asked  Margot. 

"Nothing,"  said  Gabrielle.  But  a 
flush  stole  up  her  cheeks.  "How  does 
a  woman  know,  Mother,  that  she  loves, 
so  that  she  may  say  certainly,  'This  is 
love'?" 

"By  the  utter  despair  that  tears  her 
heart  in  two." 

"But,  Mother,"  protested  Gabrielle, 
"they  tell  me  that  love  is  sweet!" 
33 


MADAME  MARGOT 

"Sweet?  As  wormwood!"  said  Mar- 
got  hoarsely.  "It  is  nothing  but  fever 
and  fret." 

"Many  I  see  who  have  it;  but  none 
who  fret.  Might  I  not  know  for  myself 
a  little  of  this  pretty  play  of  lovers  and 
beloved?"  besought  Gabrielle. 

Margot  looked  at  Gabrielle  and 
trembled,  seeing  the  shadow  upon  her, 
foreseeing  the  fate  of  her  loveliness, 
perceiving  indiscretion's  lips  at  the  rim 
of  the  cup  of  terror.  "What  man  has 
snared  your  silly  heart?"  she  asked. 

Gabrielle  stared  at  her.  "Why  should 
any  man  snare  my  heart?"  she  asked  in 
pitiful  wonder.  "I  have  never  harmed 
any  man,  nor  any  living  thing."  She 
caught  her  breath.  "Oh,  Mother,  feel 
my  heart  beating!  It  beats  as  if  it 
would  burst.  Why  does  my  heart  beat 
so?  Am  I  dying?  Do  you  think  that 
34 


MADAME  MARGOT 

I  must  die?  Yet,  Mother,  my  heart  is 
aching  so  that  I  would  that  I  could  die! 
Is  not  what  God  made  good  .  .  .  you 
told  me  that  God  was  love  .  .  .  was  not 
mankind  made  by  God  ...  and  is  not 
love  the  world's  delight?" 

"It  is  its  direst  misery,"  said  Margot 
bitterly.  "God  keep  you  from  it.  Two 
parts  are  pain,  two  sorrow,  and  the 
other  two  parts  are  death." 

"I  don't  fear  death,"  said  Gabrielle. 
"Then  why  should  I  fear  love?" 

"Because  it  is  a  lie,"  cried  Margot, 
beside  herself.  "I  conjure  you,  by 
God's  sorrow,  close  your  ears  against 
it." 

"How  can  I  close  my  ears  against  it 
when  I  hear  it  in  my  sleep?" 

Margot's  delight  in  her  daughter's 
beauty    was    turned    into    bitterness. 
"Peace!"   she  cried.    "And  leave  me. 
35 


MADAME  MARGOT 

All  this  will  pass  away."  But,  deep 
within,  her  heart  said,  "Never!"  Inno 
cence  will  be  indiscreet.  Sin  alone  is 
always  tclever1.  And  in  youth  great 
things  are  lightly  asked  and  lightly 
given.  "Go!"  she  cried  to  Gabrielle. 

Gabrielle  left  the  room.  Margot 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

It  is  hard  for  woman  to  stand  alone 
and  to  resist  temptation  forever.  Soon 
or  late  the  black  moment  comes ;  reason 
is  off  guard;  prudence  abandons  her; 
caution  is  thrown  to  the  winds :  passion 
betrays.  Here  is  an  irremediable  dis 
ease  which  baffles  the  skill  of  the  phy 
sicians.  Margot  recoiled  as  she  faced 
the  future.  Time  had  become  a  terror. 
Burning  tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks. 
There  is  no  woe  so  sickening  as  the 
monotone  of  fear,  the  shuddering,  in 
terior  sense  of  impending  catastrophe. 
36 


MADAME  MARGOT 

Nor  is  it  eased  by  the  strange  apathy 
which  is  granted  to  the  doomed.  Mar- 
got  groaned  in  an  agony,  half  remorse, 
half  apprehension.  Could  God  set  so 
foul  a  seal  upon  so  fair  a  thing? 

Again  on  a  day  Gabrielle  came  in 
from  the  garden,  her  eyes  dry-burning 
and  famine-bright.  "Mother,  give  me 
a  lover!"  she  cried.  "Nietta  Pascault 
has  one!" 

"Then  alas  and  alack  for  Nietta  Pas 
cault!"  cried  Margot. 

"But,  Mother,  he  called  her  his 
heart's  delight;  she  did  not  speak,  but 
she  kissed  him;  and  he  kissed  her  until 
he  must  have  bruised  her  lips;  yet  she 
did  not  seem  to  care  .  .  .  rather  she 
seemed  to  like  it.  And  all  he  said  was 
'Love  me!  Love  me!'  and  all  she  said 
was  'Yes,'  and  'Yes!'  And  when  he 
kissed  her  she  grew  pale;  I  thought  that 
37 


MADAME  MAKGOT 

she  was  dead,  .  .  .  but  he  held  her  in 
his  arms,  Mother,  and  kissed  her  again 
and  again,  as  though  he  would  kiss  her 
back  to  life.  Will  kisses  bring  one  back 
from  the  dead?  For,  Mother,  suddenly 
she  opened  her  eyes  as  if  she  lived  only 
for  love;  and  then  all  he  said  was  'Love 
me!'  and  all  she  said  was  'Yes!' ' 

Margot's  heart  fainted. 
f  Day  after  day  Gabrielle  knelt  in  the 
garden  and  plead  for  her  heart's  desire. 
Night  after  night  Margot  crouched  on 
her  floor  and  prayed,  in  despair  and 
agony,  that  it  might  not  be  given  her. 
Heaven's  custodian  mingled  their  pray 
ers  in  fatal  entanglement;  one  was  an 
swered,  and  one  was  not:  he  is  respon- 
^sible. 

Sunset  lay  on  Margot's  garden.    The 
paths   still  shimmered  with  the  day's 
38 


MADAME  MARGOT 

heat,  though  the  lax  grass  lifted  in  the 
shadows.  Nameless  perfumes  wan 
dered  among  the  drowsily-bending 
flowers;  the  odor  of  warm  boxwood 
rose  from  the  hedge.  The  hedge  stood 
black  against  the  sky;  in  its  glistening, 
fragrant  deeps  small  birds  moved  swift 
ly  to  and  fro  in  curious  agitation. 

Gabrielle,  puzzling  upon  life's  un 
answered  riddle,  stood  listening  to 
sounds  beyond  the  hedge.  Everywhere 
was  the  patter  of  hurrying  feet,  and  the 
whisper  of  wordless  laughter,  mocking 
ly  borne  on  the  evening  wind.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  golden  vision  of  light- 
footed  maidens  with  fluttering  gar 
ments,  flying  through  Lilac  lane, 
pursued  by  ardent  and  breathless  lovers, 
eagerly  following  where  they  fled.  The 
sound  of  laughter  floated  back  along 
the  narrow  way,  and  the  little  faint  echo 
39 


MADAME  M ARGOT 

of  flying  feet.  It  was  that  time  of  the 
year  when  all  maids  are  sweet  as 
freshly  gathered  flowers,  and  all  men 
are  a  little  mad.  Even  the  earth,  drab 
clod,  was  astir  with  the  ecstasy  of  ap 
proaching  night. 

Beneath  the  broad-boughed  mag 
nolia  grew  a  pomegranate-tree  whose 
branches  shrouded  the  greater  tree's 
bole.  The  scarlet  pomegranate  flowers 
hung  over  Gabrielle;  the  green  leaves 
folded  her  in.  Faint  color  came  fit 
fully  over  her  cheek;  her  eyes  roamed 
restlessly  through  the  garden,  but  found 
no  solace  there.  As  she  stood  thus, 
brooding  on  life's  inexplicable  theme, 
she  was  aware  of  a  sudden  shadow  which 
fell  on  the  grass  beside  her,  and  turned 
in  voiceless  terror. 

There  was  a  face  in  the  green  hedge, 
smiling,  two  butterflies  hovering  over 
40 


MADAME  MARGOT 

it, — a  lad's  face,  laughing  and  debonair, 
with  yellow  hair  curling  around  it  like 
crisp  little  golden  flames;  his  cheeks 
were  as  ruddy  and  smooth  as  a  child's; 
his  eyes  were  blue  as  the  morning,  swift 
and  bright ;  the  leaves  stirred  all  around 
him  as  if  to  the  beat  of  wings;  there 
was  confidence  in  his  bearing,  easy 
lordship  and  high  pride. 

Gabrielle,  startled  and  terrified, 
shrank  back  against  the  magnolia's 
black  bole,  one  trembling,  hesitant  hand 
extended  in  doubt.  Speechless  she 
stared  at  that  bright,  boyish  face  with 
its  nimbus  of  sunlit,  yellow  hair,  until 
her  dry  eyes  gushed  tears,  dimming  her 
sight, — stared  in  wonder  and  adoration. 

His  eyes  were  audaciously  bright  as 

wild    stars,    incessantly    roving,    and 

alight  with  golden  fire.     He  was  tall, 

well-set  and  slender,  with  a  beautiful, 

41 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

straight  body;  there  was  something 
godlike  in  his  air  as  he  leaned  through 
the  matted  hedge,  eagerly  scanning  her, 
— her  pale  rose  cheeks,  snowy  gown, 
moth-green  kerchief,  her  lips,  her  neck 
matching  the  ivory  of  the  blossoms  in 
her  hair, — half -veiled  by  a  screen  of 
leafy  green,  dull  gold  and  pomegranate 
flowers. 

She  had  bound  her  hair  with  a  bit  of 
gold  braid  which  shone  like  an  aureole 
round  her  brow,  and  in  it  had  thrust  two 
butterfly  lilies,  whiter  than  ivory;  her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  round  and  un 
winking,  their  frightened  depths  full  of 
tears;  her  lips  had  fallen  slightly  apart 
to  free  her  fluttering  breath ;  she  sighed, 
a  little,  shuddering  sigh,  and  crossed  her 
hands  upon  her  breast.  Her  beauty 
startled  him:  delicate- frail,  almost 
translucent  in  the  golden  sun,  she 
42 


MADAME  MARGOT 

seemed  a  being  not  of  flesh  and  gross 
mortality,  but  a  spirit  by  enchantment 
made  visible,  a  dryad  out  of  the  ancient 
wood,  a  maiden  saint  stepped  out  of  a 
missal  or  fled  from  a  chapel  window, 
with  a  halo  around  her  brow.  With  her 
head  poised  like  a  flower;  her  little,  per 
fect  hands  and  feet;  her  ankles  slim 
and  beautiful;  each  line  aristocratic; 
everything  proclaiming  patrician  blood ; 
nothing  asserting  a  baser  thing:  saint, 
maid,  dryad,  nymph,  or  sprite,  who 
could  tell  which? 

Silently  drinking  her  loveliness  he 
leaned  through  the  hedge.  Among  the 
fire-colored  flowers  and  green,  her  color 
was  exquisite  as  the  violet  sky  is,  seen 
through  yellow  leaves. 

Again  she  sighed  softly ;  stared  at  his 
face,  and  shivered  a  little.  Was  it  a 
god  or  a  man  in  the  hedge?  Had  he 
43 


MADAME  MARGOT 

sprouted  out  of  the  boxwood,  or  fallen 
from  the  clouds? 

The  perfect  beauty  of  her  figure,  out 
lined  on  green  by  her  thin  white  gown, 
charmed  and  enchanted  him.  He  stared 
at  her,  trying  to  focus  her  face  more 
clearly  upon  his  sight;  her  loveliness 
struck  him  dumb.  She  seemed  a  statue 
of  ivory,  hung  with  garlands  of  gold, 
crimson  and  green,  half -hidden  by  a 
^rood-screen  of  shimmering  emerald.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  looked  on  more 
than  mortal  beauty. 

Leaning  forward  a  little,  one  hand 
outstretched,  one  clasping  her  throat, 
she  watched  his  face  with  its  golden  hair 
aglow  in  the  last  red  sunlight.  How 
could  she  tell  if  it  were  a  god  or  a  man, 
— that  face  with  its  shimmering  locks 
like  living  fire  around  it,  a  gleaming 
nimbus  whose  dancing  flames  were  f  ash- 


MADAME  MARGOT 

ioned  of  burnished  gold,  a  face  like  a 
blazing  seraph's,  or  Ariel's?  She 
looked  at  that  proud  young  countenance 
in  wordless  adoration. 

Her  own  face  was  now  intensely 
bright  with  the  sunset's  declining  glory. 
Into  the  crevice  between  her  lips  the 
sunshine  had  slipped;  her  lips  were 
translucent ;  her  mouth  was  aglow  as  if 
she  breathed  ethereal  fire. 

Suddenly  he  drew  his  breath  with  a 
sharply  audible  sound ;  for,  as  he  gazed, 
longing  seized  the  boy's  heart  and 
wrung  it  bitterly. 

The  flame  which  blazed  in  his  bright 
eyes  put  an  answering  glow  in  her 
own.  She  was  aware  that  her  beauty 
had  startled  him.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  was  awake  to  her  own  love 
liness,  a  sense  wonderful  and  sweet.  A 
delicate,  throbbing  fire  came  fluttering 
45 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

up  through  her  breast ;  a  flush  stole  into 
her  cheeks  and  warmed  their  ashy 
pallor.  Her  eyes  met  his:  in  his  eyes 
were  joy,  surprise,  and  longing.  His 
eyes  met  hers:  and  all  her  doubts  went 
out  in  wordless  joy.  For,  when  she 
perceived  that  look  in  his  face,  she,  too, 
was  thrilled  with  longing;  the  silence 
sang;  fire  thrilled  her  heart;  suddenly 
neck  and  cheeks  flamed  red. 

She  answered  his  look  with  glorious 
eyes,  humid,  terrified,  alight.  Then  her 
frightened  eyes  fell  and  her  shy  face. 
But,  like  a  wave  which  breaks  along  a 
beach  in  a  passionate  surge,  her  heart 
rushed  out  to  greet  him. 

He  saw  her  neck  and  her  cheeks  flame 
red;  passion  struck  him  to  the  heart. 
With  a  gesture  of  haughty  but  boyish 
humility  he  pushed  through  the  hedge, 
seized  the  sheltering  pomegranate 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

branches,  and  swept  them  aside.  She 
stood  uncurtained  before  him.  He 
gazed  at  her.  "St.  Jacques!"  he  cried. 
"Are  you  a  living  creature  ?" 

She  regarded  him  for  an  instant  with 
a  look  of  undisguised  terror,  catching 
her  breath  with  a  sobbing  sound  right 
pitiful  to  hear;  then  her  quivering, 
piteous  face  was  made  exquisite  by 
tears. 

A  back-wash  of  timidity  held  him  si 
lently  staring  at  her,— a  boy,  hot  and 
hasty,  sure  of  himself,  impulsively 
bold,  but  abashed,— admiration  and 
longing  ablaze  in  his  eyes.  Gabri- 
elle  stammered,  but  could  not  find 
words;  her  breast  heaved  and  sank;  she 
could  not  control  it.  Overwhelmed  by 
the  sudden  strange  rush  of  emotion,  she 
swayed  giddily,  dizzily  put  out  one  hand 
to  steady  herself,  and  laid  it  upon  his 
47 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

arm:  a  tremulous  smile  came  over  her 
face;  her  tears,  like  an  April  shower, 
were  gone. 

His  hand  sought  her  other  hand; 
found  it;  held  it;  thus  their  hands  met. 
Half  a  step  timidly  they  approached 
each  other;  than  stood  at  a  halt  as  if 
turned  to  stone.  Her  frightened  breath 
was  the  only  sound  save  the  stirring  of 
the  night -wind  in  the  dark  boughs  over 
head. 

Shaking  like  a  wind-blown  leaf,  ffQue 
desirez-vous  de  moi?"  she  gasped. 

His  voice,  too,  was  trembling.  "That 
you  should  love  me  a  little,  for  pity's 
sake,  .  .  .  and  quite  forget  to  fear!" 

His  voice  seemed  to  Gabrielle  god 
like. 

"See,  then  ...  I  fear  nothing  .  .  . 
I  should  as  soon  think  of  fearing  the  air 
we  breathe!"  she  said,  adoring  her  slen- 
48 


MADAME  MARGOT 

der  young  demigod  out  of  the  hedge. 
Then  suddenly  she  raised  her  hand  and 
laid  it  caressingly  on  his  cheek;  her 
trembling  fingers  felt  like  flowers 
trailed  across  his  face. 

He  laughed.  There  was  an  infec 
tious  sweetness  and  merriment  in  his 
laughter.  Then  they  laughed  together, 
softly, — first  love  and  joy  are  silent 
things. 

"You  are  the  god  of  love,"  she  said, 
with  infinite  simplicity.  "Else,  how 
could  you  fly  over  the  hedge?" 

Her  flute-like  voice  was  like  the  music 
of  a  half-awakened  song,  and  exquisite 
ly  moving;  her  words  trailed  slowly  like 
speech  asleep. 

Again  he  laughed.  "The  god  of 
love?  Bien!  Then  what  shall  I  have 
that  is  godlike?" 

"What  you  will,"  she  said.     "You 
49 


MADAME  MARGOT 

may  ask."  For  the  innocent  are  trust 
ful  as  doves,  helpless  as  the  least  crea 
tures,  weak  as  the  small  birds  among 
the  little  branches. 

He  drew  a  quick  breath.  "Most  of 
all  things  on  earth  I  would  have  a  kiss 
from  your  mouth.  Shall  I  have  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Take  it!"  and  put 
up  her  lips.  So  their  mouths  met.  A 
thousand  tingling  darts  of  fire  pierced 
through  her  as  his  lips  touched  hers. 

Her  heart  was  wrung  by  that  first 
kiss;  for  an  instant  it  stood  still;  the 
blood  had  left  it,  and  had  fled  through 
her  like  flame ;  she  almost  swooned.  For 
first  passion  is  like  the  wind  in  the  blos 
soming  locust-tree,  too  sweet  to  be 
easily  breathed  or  borne;  youth's  first 
caress  is  almost  an  agony.  Gabrielle 
gasped;  his  lips  had  burned  on  hers 
like  a  celestial  fire.  Both  shook  as  love's 
50 


MADAME  MARGOT 

consuming  flame  rushed  through  them. 
As  he  to  her  was  first,  so  she  to  him-/ 
each  gave  the  other  life's  immaculate 
gift,  the  unmeasured,  unmeasurable  fire 
of  love's  first  embrace,  that  passionate 
anguish  of   delicate,   uncalculated  de% 
light,  ardent  and  boundless. 

Their  lips  hurried  to  the  meeting. 
How  could  they  delay?  Youth  and 
love  brook  no  delays.  Yet,  as  she  felt 
his  lips  upon  her  own,  she  regarded  him 
with  a  writhen  countenance  of  unquali 
fied  terror.  Love  comes  to  the  maiden 
spirit  with  sudden  tumult,  and  strikes 
it,  not  as  a  blithe  discovery,  or  an  all- 
Ely  sian  joy,  but  as  a  birth  and  an 
agony,  from  which,  if  the  soul  survives, 
comes  unspeakable  happiness.  His  lips 
sought  hers  and  seeking,  met;  in  the 
meeting  her  soul  flew  out  at  her  mouth. 

The  world  seemed  suddenly  remote, 
51 


MADAME  MARGOT 

withdrawn  into  the  depths  of  uncalcu- 
lated  space.  There  remained  but  these 
two  young,  love-stunned  souls,  groping 
to  each  other  in  the  garden  under  the 
shadow  of  the  great  magnolia-trees. 

The  enchantment  of  love  was  upon 
them.  The  happy  girl  lay  close  upon 
his  heart,  and  all  she  said  was,  "Love 
me !  Love  me !"  and,  "If  ever  I  cease  to 
love  you  perdition  take  my  soul!"  he 
said.  With  utter  confidence  her  eyes 
looked  up  into  his,  glowing  with  a  pas 
sion  that  knows  no  change ;  and  all  she 
said,  as  she  lay  against  his  heart,  was, 
"Love  me!  Only  love  me!"  That  is  all 
a  woman  asks.  Her  fingers  stroked  his 
yellow  hair ;  the  mere  touch  thrilled  her 
with  unspeakable  happiness. 
r Night  came,  and  darkness  voyaged 
dhe  uncharted  sky.  Overhead  the  blue 
dome  blazed  with  the  innumerable  stars 
52 


MADAME  MARGOT 


- 


and  golden  planets  heaving  up  heaven's 
arch;  the  tremulous  green  lamps  of  the 
fireflies  filled  the  earth  with  twinkling 
constellations  all  around  them.  But  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  were  as  nothing 
to  them  :  love  was  there,  and  he,  and  she, 
and  the  utterly  forgotten  starlight. 
AnxL  where  youth 


death,  good  or  ill,  the  bright  stars  or 
the  black  mould,  or  better  or  worse,  are 
nothing,  and_wisdom  is  of  little,  worth. 

They  gazed  into   each  other's   eyes 
teith  wordless  tenderness.     Youth  has 
mot  words,  nor  waits  to  find  them;  age 
finds  words,  and  nothing  else. 

Across  the  city  boomed  the  hour,  — 
at  last. 

"Oh!    I  must  go!" 

"Not  yet!    Not  yet!" 

"But  I  must  go.     Good-night!" 

"Not  yet!" 

53 


MADAME  MARGOT 

"But  I  must  go!  Good-night!  Good 
night!  I  pray  you,  leave  me  go  .  .  . 
for  truly  I  must  go!" 

"You  '11  come  again?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Show  me  the  way  into  the  garden," 
he  said.  She  showed  him  the  quickest 
way  in,  kissed  him,  and  was  gone 
through  the  garden;  for  him  the  night 
was  darkened,  and  the  stars  put  out. 
Her  breath  was  still  upon  his  face,  the 
smell  of  the  flowers  in  his  nostrils ;  and 
in  his  ears  was  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
calling  after  him,  low  and  sweet,  like  a 
half-awakened  song, — or  was  it  but  a 
bird  which  called,  that  softly-fluting, 
lonely  note. 

And  when  he  was  gone  the  garden  to 
Gabrielle  was  emptied  of  delight;  but 
all  her  soul  was  singing. 

Her  lips  stung;  her  cheeks  were  on 
54 


MADAME  MARGOT 

fire.  Into  the  house  she  came,  one  little 
slipper  upon  its  little  foot,  one  slipper 
gone, — what  became  of  that  lost  little 
slipper  God  knows! — and  her  stock 
inged  foot  was  damp  with  the  dew  which 
had  dripped  from  the  leaves  overhead. 
A  flame  was  in  her  eyes  which  is  in  a 
maiden's  eyes  but  once,  when  love  first 
lays  his  hands  upon  her  heart.  So 
transfigured  was  she,  she  seemed  a 
winged  creature.  She  loved;  she  was 
beloved;  inarticulate  ecstasy!  Hands, 
feet,  neck,  and  face  told  but  one  story. 
Her  eyes  shone  like  blazing  stars;  the 
roses  had  returned  to  her  pale  lips,  the 
freshness  to  her  wan  cheeks. 

Margot  watched  her  with  narrowed 
eyes. 

"Mother,  I  am  happy;  so  happy  that 
I  do  not  want  to  die;  I  want  to  live  for 
ever!" 

55 


MADAME  MARGOT 

Margot  eyed  her  narrowly.  "What 
has  changed  your  mind?" 

"I  was  walking  in  the  garden,"  re 
joined  Gabrielle,  "and  the  god  of  love 
was  there.  He  kissed  me  on  my  mouth, 
Mother;  and  oh,  Mother,  love  is  sweet!" 

Margot's  heart  stopped  beating. 
"Are  you  quite  mad?"  she  said. 

Then  the  truth  dawned  upon  her. 
She  lost  all  sense  of  balance  in  the 
crossed  tides  of  dismay.  She  strained 
her  daughter  to  her  heart,  then  thrust 
her  away;  dropped  speech  unuttered; 
gave  a  choked  cry  of  despair,  while  her 
face  went  gray  as  ashes. 

She  clutched  Gabrielle  by  the  arms, 
steadying  herself,  for  she  could  scarcely 
have  stood  alone.  She  blinked  like  a 
person  purblind,  and  peered  into  the 
gnTs  wondering  eyes.  The  lines  of  her 
face  became  furrows.  "Oh,  my  God!" 
56 


MADAME  MARGOT 

she  whispered,  "I  should  have  known! 
I  should  have  known!" 

Margot  cowered  as  if  to  avoid  a  blow; 
her  eyes  dilated;  yet  she  seemed  in 
capable  of  seeing;  her  mouth  fell  open, 
she  seemed  to  scream,  yet  made  no  sound 
but  that  of  the  whistling  breath  through 
her  nostrils,  as  one  who  sustains  the  tor 
ture  of  the  rack. 

She  thrust  Gabrielle  from  her.  "Go !" 
she  gasped,  and  struck  herself  on  head 
and  breast,  crying  out,  "Mother  of 
God!  I  should  have  known!  Fool, 
fool,  fool!"  Then,  as  if  stunned,  her 
head  fell  down  upon  her  breast. 


In  the  dark  and  breathless  stillness 

of  the  night  there  was  a  stern,  strange 

loveliness;  and  now  something  akin  to 

terror,  the  terror  of  a  child  that  dreams, 

57 


MADAME  MARGOT 

and,  waking  in  the  darkness,  cries  out 
from  dread  of  unknown  things. 

An  ill  wind,  which  had  been  blowing 
since  sunset  with  a  far-off,  moaning 
sound,  had  arisen  to  a  melancholy, 
screaming  note,  with  an  extraordinary 
rumbling  in  the  chimney.  Clouds  of 
soot  and  ashes,  blown  from  the  fireplace, 
whirled  in  drifts  around  the  floor.  The 
sound  of  distant  thunder,  the  velocity 
of  the  wind,  the  increasing  turmoil  and 
confusion,  filled  the  night  with  keen 
disease.  A  bird  sped  round  the  house 
with  a  shrill  cry;  the  wind  bellowed 
hoarsely  in  the  chimney;  the  house 
shook  with  the  blast ;  over  the  housetops 
could  be  heard  the  coming  of  the  rain; 
the  light  of  the  flickering  candles  served 
only  to  increase  the  gloom;  the  draft 
from  the  window  swelled  out  the  print 
curtain  and  floated  it  half-way  across 
58 


MADAME  M ARGOT 

the  room,  straining  and  whipping  at  its 
pole;  the  black  magnolias  bent,  and 
rose,  and  bent  again,  as  if  beneath  the 
beating  of  gigantic  wings:  it  was  close 
upon  midnight. 

Before  her  crucifix  Margot  knelt,  re 
gardless  of  the  storm,  praying  in 
anguish  for  the  safety  of  her  child. 
Ever  before  her  imagining  was  Gabri- 
elle,  dishonored  and  betrayed,  aban 
doned  to  scorn  and  poverty.  Her  hands 
twisted  in  desperate  appeal. 

"Blessed  St.  Dominique,  lover  of 
souls,  preserve  my  daughter!"  she 
plead.  She  listened  motionless;  all  that 
she  heard  was  the  roar  of  the  wind. 

"Mary,  Mother,  great  in  grace,  de 
fend  and  preserve  my  child!  Mary, 
Mother  of  Sorrows,  have  mercy  upon 
my  daughter!" 

59 


MADAME  MARGOT 

Again  she  listened;  but  for  the  howl 
of  the  gale  the  silence  was  profound. 

"All  ye  Holy  Virgins,  intercede  for 
us I"  Her  panting  voice  broke.  "Lord 
of  Compassion,  hear  me!  Lord  of  In 
finite  Mercy,  hear  me!  Have  mercy 
upon  my  child!  O  Thou,  Most  Pitiful 
Lord  of  the  Innocent,  answer  my 
prayer!" 

Again  she  listened.  There  was  no 
sound  but  the  roar  of  the  storm,  the 
creak  of  the  house,  and  the  gnawing  of 
the  great  rats  in  the  timbers  of  the  wall. 
She  cringed  and  shivered,  and  in  ex 
treme  entreaty  cried,  "Lard,  Seigneur 
Dieu,  preserve  and  spare  my  child! 
You  see  her  young  and  fair,  her  soul  as 
pure  as  the  flowers  that  bloom  in  Para 
dise!  You  breathed  into  her  life;  by 
your  law  she  was  made;  but  for  you  she 
60 


MADAME  MARGOT 

never  had  been;  dare  you  then  let  her 
fall?" 

But  all  was  still.  Heaven,  to  mortal 
anguish,  seems  intolerably  serene,  so  far 
beyond  comprehension  is  the  inscrutable 
leisure  of  God.  It  was  taking  too  long 
for  her  sorrow  to  reach  the  foot  of  the 
throne.  She  was  seeking  her  daugh 
ter's  safety,  though  it  should  be  at  the 
hazard  of  her  soul;  but  all  she  had  was 
the  bitterness  of  unanswered  supplica 
tion.  To  hearts  dismayed  there  is  noth 
ing  so  appallingly  still  as  God.  The 
confident  faithful  may  await  the  ulti 
mate  reply;  but  the  desperate  storm 
heaven,  they  have  not  time  to  wait. 

She  beat  her  breast;  her  hair  was 
moist;  her  garments  disarrayed;  her 
voice  grew  sharp;  by  vicars,  saints  and 
intercessors,  by  all  intermediaries,  she 
plead  with  Almighty  God  to  listen  and 
61 


MADAME  MARGOT 

to  reply.  There  was  no  answer.  "Mary, 
Mother  of  Sorrows!"  she  gasped. 
"Does  God  not  understand?" 

Her  appeal  arose  piercing  shrill: 
"Dieu,  Dieu,  Eternel  Dieu,  ecoute 
mes  cris!  Hdte-toi  de  ma  secourir! 
Hate-toi  d'elle  delivrer!  O  Toi,  qui 
ecoutes  la  priere,  aie  pitie  de  nous!  Ne 
tarde-pas!  Ecoute,  mes  cris!"  She 
waited;  there  was  no  answer;  and  sud 
denly  her  voice  went  up  like  the  cry  of 
delirium: 

ffO  Dieu  Tres-haut,  reveille-toi! 
Reveille-toi,  mon  Dieu!"  Then  in  a 
tone  of  amazement  and  pathos,  "Mary, 
Mother  of  Sorrows,"  she  said,  "do  I 
have  to  explain  to  God?" 

She  paused  a  moment  while  despair 

rose  like  a  swelling  flood ;  then  through 

the  darkness  and  the  night  went  up  a 

bitter    cry:     " Seigneur   Dieu!    Tout- 

62 


MADAME  MARGOT 

puissant  Dieu!  sois  attentif  a  ma  priere: 
tu  m'arrosarez  avec  I'hysope,  et  je 
serai  purifiee;  vous  me  laveras,  et  je 
deviendrai  plus  blanche  que  la  neige! 
Plus  blanche  que  la  neige,  mon  Dieu! 
Plus  blanche  que  la  neige!  Gabriclle, 
ma  fille,  mon  Dieu!  plus  blanche  que  la 
neige!  Forgive  in  her  my  transgres 
sions;  pardon  in  her  my  sins;  deliver 
her  from  her  inheritance  .  .  .  O  my 
God!  .  .  .  let  her  be  white !" 

A  tremendous  gust  blew  through  the 
house;  the  wind  sucked  in  the  chimney 
with  a  sound  like  awful  laughter;  the 
blinds  recoiled  with  thunderous  shock; 
but  from  Heaven  there  was  no  answer. 

At  this  she  cried  out  pitifully  as  He 
who  long  ago  cried  out  the  cry,  which 
through  unending  ages  shall  stand 
archetype  of  despair:  "Mon  Dieu,  mon 
Dieu!  pourquoi  m'as-tu  abandonne?" 
63 


MADAME  MARGOT 

The  wind  screamed  round  about  her 
with  the  sound  of  many  voices;  far  off 
arose  a  tumult  as  of  many  people  run 
ning  ;  borne  on  the  wind  came  a  torrent 
of  hideous  sound,  not  mad  music, 
but  awful  dissonance,  swiftly  nearing, 
suddenly  checked:  after  the  clamor  a 
silence  like  death ;  the  room  was  fantas 
tically  still.  Margot  clung  to  the  foot 
of  the  crucifix.  "Pourquoi,  O  Dieu, 
rejettes-tu?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  grown 
shriveled  and  thin.  She  crouched  a 
moment,  motionless,  her  head  on  one 
side,  listening.  There  was  no  reply. 
Heaven  maintained  its  brassy  silence. 
Her  face  went  gray;  her  eyes  were  hard 
as  stones;  she  turned  her  back  on  the 
crucifix,  saying,  "I  will  call  upon  You 
no  more!" 

There  was  a  queer  shuffling  sound  as 
of  footsteps  in  the  entry.  The  candles 
64 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

sank  to  dull  blue  sparks  devoid  of  radi 
ance;  yet,  instead  of  darkness  there  was 
light.  Outside  was  darkness,  vast,  pit- 
mirk;  inside,  appalling  light.  All  the 
place  was  stunned  and  blinded  by  an 
overwhelming  light  which  cast  no 
shadows  anywhere,  but,  vehemently 
streaming,  searched  crack  and  cranny; 
not  a  crevice  escaped.  It  lapped  and 
flowed  like  waves,  and  penetrated 
everything;  even  the  gross  material  of 
the  walls,  saturated  by  that  flame,  gave 
back  a  superfluous  glow,  a  white  excess 
of  light,  and  every  pointed  thing  with 
in  the  room  was  peaked  and  capped 
with  flame.  Round  and  round  the  room 
a  bewildered  host  of  moths  in  little 
wavering  flights  and  drops  went  flutter 
ing,  with  a  light  rustle  of  powdery 
wings,  and,  among  them,  bats  splashed 
through  the  light  with  a  low,  continu- 
65 


MADAME  MARGOT 

ous  whirr.  Round  and  round,  like 
froth-clots  on  flood-water  swinging 
around  a  vortex,  whirled  slantbat  and 
moth  in  a  dizzy,  irregular  ring,  in  the 
midst  of  which,  crouched  in  a  high- 
backed  chair,  sat  a  shriveled,  dead- 
alive,  mummy-like  figure,  as  thin  and 
fleshless  as  a  skeleton, — an  apparition, 
sinister,  white,  and  wasted  as  a  corpse 
new-risen  from  the  grave. 

Its  chin  upon  its  folded  hands,  its 
hands  about  one  knee,  the  knee  upheld 
by  the  heel  crooked  at  the  chair-seat's 
edge,  the  other  gaunt  leg  dangling 
across  the  upraised  foot,  the  specter 
smiled  on  Margot  a  bleak,  Saturnine 
smile.  Its  face  was  greatly  wasted ;  all 
the  life  of  it  seemed  gathered  into  the 
brilliant,  terrible  eyes,  which  blazed 
with  infernal  light,  in  splendid  scorn, 
without  remorse,  sardonical;  a  coun- 
66 


MADAME  MARGOT 

tenance  such  as  God  alone  endures  to 
look  upon  unmoved;  a  figure  terrible 
.  .  .  Deity,  deformed,  might  look  like 
this,  grotesquely  majestical,  hideous, 
baleful,  glorious,  accursed,  malign;  an 
archangel,  fallen,  outcast,  depraved: 
Satan,  god  of  the  discontent. 

A  twisted  smile  wreathing  his  evil 
lips,  with  his  chin  hooked  over  his  hands, 
— a  smile  of  cool  confidence  mingled 
with  nonchalance,  "Why  not  try  me?" 
he  said. 


Staring  into  the  abyss  of  blinding 
terror  and  light  which  encircled  that 
thunder-scarred  visage,  with  its  thin, 
sleepless  eyelids  and  twisted,  ironic 
smile,  Margot  shrank  against  the  wall, 
shivering  as  with  cold ;  one  hand  shield- 
67 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

ing  her  blinded  eyes,  one  groping  along 
the  wall,  she  listened,  breathlessly. 

In  a  voice  whose  deep  and  hollow 
sound  seemed  part  of  the  midnight 
storm,  Satan  spoke. 

"God  has  forgotten  you;  that  is 
plain,"  he  said.  "Then  why  not  pray 
unto  me?  I  remember  when  God  for 
gets. 

"What  did  ye  hope?  That  He  who 
left  Jesus  to  die  on  the  cross,  would 
stoop  to  succor  you?  Nay,  then;  you 
have  been  cajoled.  He  has  never  so 
much  as  kept  one  man  from  the  wither 
ing  breath  of  time,  but  leaves  a  thou 
sand  ills  on  earth  to  work  their  wills 
upon  him.  Yet  you  thought  He  would 
harken  to  you?  Fi  done!  Neither  for 
life  nor  death,  nor  angels,  nor  princi 
palities,  nor  for  all  the  powers  that  ever 
68 


MADAME  MARGOT 

were,  or  shall  forever  be,  will  He  alter 
for  you,  or  for  any,  one  iota  of  His  law. 

"Nay,  though  your  heart  break  with 
its  burden,  not  a  jot  of  His  law  shall 
be  altered  to  ease  your  load. 

"I  have  seen  all  the  piety  under  the 
sun;  and  its  wages  are  vanity.  What 
profit  have  you  of  all  your  labor;  what 
recompense  of  your  toil?  Heaven 
hath  sent  you  sorrow;  it  hath  not  sent 
a  cure,  nor  had  compassion  upon  you. 

"If  this  be  loving-kindness,  why  not 
try  damnation  awhile;  not  forfeit 
riches,  power,  and  place,  for  a  fool's 
hope  of  treasures  in  heaven? 

"Doubtless  the  priest  hath  said  unto 
you,  'What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he 
gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own 
soul?'  Faw!  I  say  unto  you,  'What 
profit  hath  a  man,  though  he  save  his 
own  soul,  if  he  lose  his  heart's  desire? 
69 


MADAME  MARGOT 

"When  you  are  dead  and  done  for, 
and  lie  sleeping  in  the  dust;  when 
worms  destroy  your  body,  when  your 
days  upon  earth  are  become  as  shad 
ows,  and  you  have  no  more  a  portion 
forever  in  anything  under  the  sun, 
what  shall  it  profit  you  to  have  saved 
your  soul  at  the  cost  of  your  heart's 
desire?  Nay;  ye  have  been  cajoled! 
Your  way  is  without  hope. 

"But  come  unto  me,  ye  anxious, 
whose  hearts  are  bowed  with  care,  and 
I  will  give  you  your  hearts'  desire !  No 
man  calls  on  me  in  vain;  I  turn  none 
empty  away;  the  world  is  full  of  my 
mercies  upon  those  who  trust  in  me; 
and  my  benefits  fall  like  the  summer 
rain  on  all  who  covenant  with  me. 
Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive,  whatsoever 
your  hearts  may  wish;  yea,  though  it 
lie  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  it  shall  be 
70 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

given  unto  you;  your  house  shall  be 
full  of  good  things,  riches,  and  place, 
and  power;  ye  shall  heap  up  gold  like 
dust  from  the  streets;  ye  shall  have 
your  hearts'  desire! 

"Come  unto  me,  ye  weary,  whose 
hearts  are  bent  with  trouble ;  lay  down 
your  burden,  and  follow  me;  I  will  give 
you  your  heart's  desire!" 

Margot's  hand  went  up  the  wall  a 
little  way  toward  the  crucifix,  then 
slipped  back  with  fumbling  fingers. 

"Lord  .  .  .  Lord!"  she  whispered 
hoarsely,  "give  me  my  heart's  desire!" 

"And  what  is  your  heart's  desire?" 

"That  my  daughter,  Gabrielle,  should 
be  white  to  all  eternity!  All  that  I 
have,  and  all  that  I  am,  will  I  give,  .  .  . 
yea,  for  this  would  I  give  my  soul." 

Satan  smiled. 

"Then  lay  down  your  burden,  my 
71 


MADAME  MARGOT 

daughter;  you  shall  have  your  heart's 
desire!" 

Margot,  with  a  sobbing  cry,  laid 
down  her  life's  unbearable  burden  at  the 
feet  of  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of 
Darkness. 

By  his  eternal  damnation  he  swore 
she  should  have  her  heart's  desire;  by 
her  rejected  salvation  she  swore  to  abide 
by  the  covenant. 

ffCon^u^matum  e$t!"  he  said,  and 
was  gone  on  the  black  blast. 

The  candles  sent  up  a  thin  flare  of 
flame  and  smoke,  and  went  out  in 
utter  darkness.  Crouched  on  the  floor 
against  the  wall  Margot  still  knelt  in 
a  stupor.  A  rat  came  out  of  a  hole  in 
the  wall  and  gnawed  at  her  rosary. 
Dawn  came  in  at  the  windows;  the 
twilit  gray  grew  pink.  The  walls  were 
blotched  and  spotted;  everything  ex- 
72 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

haled  an  odor  of  mildew;  Margot  still 
huddled  upon  the  floor  beneath  the 
crucifix;  over  her  head  the  crucified 
Christ  hung  mute  in  His  agony. 


The  flight  of  hours,  the  decline  of 
day,  the  season's  turn,  all  things  which 
preface  change  are  presages  of  parting, 
and,  like  the  proximity  of  the  tomb, 
though  wreathed  in  bloomy  myrtle,  are 
subtly  fraught  with  sadness  and  regret. 
All  love's  farewells  are  so  oppressed. 
Though  with  absolute  confidence  in 
themselves  and  in  each  other,  sure  of 
the  imperishable  structure  of  their  love, 
a  nameless  apprehension  fills  the  hearts 
of  all  who  part,  and  casts  a  melancholy 
shade  on  partings.  "Until  to-morrow !" 
Ah,  to-morrow!  "To-morrow  I  will 
come  again!"  she  says.  They  go,  with 
73 


MADAME  MARGOT 

trembling  hands,  each,  shaken  by  de 
parture,  saying,  "Shall  we  meet  again?" 

"To-morrow!"  Gabrielle  had  said,  as 
she  took  her  lips  away.  "To-morrow  I 
will  come  again!"  and  was  gone. 

In  the  warm  heart  of  the  midsum 
mer  night  he  dreamed  again  among  the 
hedges,  a  boy's  dream,  a  dream  of  joy, 
a  dream  of  heart's  delight.  Her  lips 
were  pomegranate  blossoms ;  her  cheeks 
were  wild  peach  flowers ;  it  was  a  boy's 
dream,  a  dream  of  joy,  a  dream  of 
heart's  delight!  Her  waist  was  as  a 
willow-withe,  her  voice  a  bird  in  the 
deep  wood  calling;  her  feet  danced  fan 
tasies  in  his  heart.  He  came  all  in  the 
daze  of  a  boy's  dream,  a  dream  of  joy, 
a  dream  of  heart's  desire.  With  every 
eager  breath  he  drew  in  the  hyacinthine 
fragrance  of  the  night. 

All  day  long,  like  a  sullen  army,  a 
74 


MADAME  MARGOT 

great  cloud  heaved  and  gloomed  along 
the  west,  with  wind-blown  vapors 
streaming  around  its  thunderous 
heights.  All  day  long,  in  awe  of  it,  men 
put  off  going  here  and  there,  gave  over 
plans,  and  stood  oppressed  by  its  tre 
mendous  imminence.  The  day  was 
darkened  by  the  dominion  of  the  cloud. 
At  evening  it  rolled  off  across  the  plain, 
obliterating  leagues  of  lesser  storms, 
with  fire  stabbing  at  its  breast,  and  dis 
tant  bellowings  of  tremendous  sound. 
Heaving  slowly  against  the  twilight 
stars,  rolling  in  sullen  majesty  upon  the 
gale,  pale  moonlight  falling  on  its 
peaks,  and  the  gray  rain  trailing  down 
below,  in  its  heart  innumerable  light 
nings,  thunder  grumbling  in  its  front,  it 
left  the  drenched  field  to  the  moon. 
Beyond  the  edge  of  the  world  it  hung, 
75 


MADAME  MARGOT 

gloomily  brooding  upon  the  splendor  of 
the  night. 

In  the  magic  of  the  moonlight  Lilac 
lane  lay  ghostly  as  a  dream,  hushed, 
alluring,  unfamiliar.  The  strange, 
white  light  of  the  immense  full  moon 
lay  dead  on  everything;  the  hedge-rows 
were  hung  with  the  shadows  and  dark 
ness  of  strange  delight;  the  cicada  chit- 
tered  in  the  almond  tree;  the  great 
moths  flapped  heavily  among  the  wet 
moon-flowers;  a  slow,  scarcely  per 
ceptible  wind  blew,  languid-sweet, 
hardly  moving  the  heavy  leaves  of  the 
magnolias;  a  gray  bird  pitched  a  wild 
song  somewhere  deep  within  a  hedge. 

In  Margot's  garden  everything  was 
wrapped  in  night's  singular  fantasy.  In 
the  pallor  of  the  moonlight  the  garden 
lay  like  an  enchanted  realm  of  goblin 
loveliness.  The  lilies  stood  as  pale  and 
76 


MADAME  MARGOT 

chill  as  flowers  carved  of  marble ;  among 
the  drowsy  poppies  hung  garlands  of 
nocturnal  vine  whose  folded  blooms  in 
chaplets  clustered  colorless  in  the  pallid 
moonshine.  The  whole  place  trembled 
in  a  pale,  strange  beauty  which  the 
silence  made  lovelier  still.  Like  an 
island  in  a  silvery  mist  Margot's  house 
stood  blind  asleep,  its  little  windows 
curtained  deep  with  shadows,  dim,  blue, 
and  dark,  and  on  the  woodwork  of  the 
door,  like  petals  of  dismantled  flowers, 
wax-wet,  wind-blown,  walked  moths 
thrown  there  by  the  whining  wind, 
slowly  blowing  across  leagues  of  lonelyl 
marsh ;  and,  among  the  moths,  the  glow- 
worms,  faintly  lighted  and  phosphor- 
green,  crawled  up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  to  nowhere:  it  looked  like  the 
door  of  the  way  to  oblivion,  so  lonely 
it  seemed  and  so  still.  The  garden  was 
77 


MADAME  MARGOT 

utterly  empty;  the  house  yard  was  de 
serted. 

He  looked ;  he  listened ;  and  his  heart 
stood  still;  save  for  the  glow-worin  and 
the  moth  there  was  nothing  alive  there 
but  him.  Like  the  chill  which  creeps 
across  the  matted  grass  of  evening  in 
the  last  fair  days  of  autumn,  full  of  the 
faded  fragrance  and  haunted  dusk  of 
fall,  a  wordless  dread  stole  over  him. 
The  moonlight  gleamed  on  the  cottage 
wall  with  a  singular,  mournful  splen 
dor;  a  heavy  wind  began  to  stir  the 
trees;  immensely  mournful,  faint  and 
far-away,  there  came  a  boom  of  thun 
der  from  beyond  the  rim  of  the  world; 
joy  all  at  once  was  gone  from  the  mid 
summer  night;  the  haunting  strange 
ness  crept  into  his  heart.  The  place  was 
full  of  the  heavy  fragrance  of  dead 
flowers.  Here  and  there  a  palsied  rose, 
78 


MADAME  MARGOT 

its  faded  leaves  relaxed,  broke,  and  fell 
without  a  sound. 

Under  the  fig-trees  he  paused  a  mo 
ment,  undecided, — to  listen,  shivering  a 
little,  and  peering  along  the  wall. 
There  was  no  sound  of  human  life. 
Though  the  wind  had  set  the  great 
leaves  stirring,  all  was  ghostly  as  a 
dream.  One  white  star  above  the  roof- 
peak  sailed  among  the  broken  clouds; 
the  moon,  desolate,  splendid,  hung  in 
the  magnolia,  mournfully  gleaming 
through  the  black  boughs;  in  the  still 
air  the  moonlight  stood;  the  shadows 
lay  like  solid  things  upon  the  cottage 
wall. 

At  the  corner  of  the  house  he  paused 
and  listened  again.  In  the  strange,  un- 
answering  silence  a  sense  of  disaster 
gripped  him.  There  was  no  sound  any 
where;  his  heart  almost  ceased  beating. 
79 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

With  premonition  of  catastrophe  he 
ran  along  the  wall: — nothing,  but  win 
dows,  battened  or  curtained,  blank  as  a 
blindman's  eyes;  not  a  sign  of  humanity. 

Where  he  had  dreamed  to  stand 
speechless  with  happiness,  he  stood 
shaken  by  nameless  fear. 

Deep  within  the  house  he  heard  a  re 
laxed  beam  "pung"  with  a  sound  like  a 
viol  string  softly  struck  by  a  hand  in 
passing:  the  deep,  slow  sound  rever 
berated  through  the  hollow  house,  and 
died  away  in  vacant  whispering. 

Through  the  crevice  of  the  shutter  he 
saw  the  cold  moonlight  fall  along  the 
deserted  floor.  The  house  was  abso 
lutely  empty. 


There   is    a   convent-school    for   or 
phaned  girls  kept  by  the  nuns  in  New 
80 


MADAME  MARGOT 

Orleans.  The  loveliest  girl  seen  there 
in  years  was  Gabrielle  Lagoux,  carried 
there  between  two  nights,  lest  young 
love,  like  death,  insist. 

Dawn  and  departure.  She  had  trem 
bled  like  a  leaf,  half  comprehending 
only;  her  mother  kissed  her  twice,  in 
feverish  haste,  with  lips  like  dry  leaves: 
that  was  their  parting.  Some  one  called 
"Gabrielle!"  at  the  door.  The  coach 
was  at  the  gate.  She  stopped  at  the 
wicket,  looked  down  the  lane,  said  a  few 
words  to  the  coachboy  who  guarded  her 
gown  from  the  wheels:  "Tell  him,"  she 
said,  "that  I  love  him.  Tell  him  re 
member  me."  She  paused  again  at  the 
door  of  the  coach,  her  foot  on  the  step, 
a  dazed  look  in  her  eyes,  saying,  "Tell 
him  not  to  forget  me.  I  love  him!" 
The  wheels  rumbled  over  the  cobbles. 
She  never  came  back.  When  she  en- 
81 


MADAME  MARGOT 

tered  the  coach  young  love  was  done  for 
forever:  she  never  saw  her  golden  lad 
again.  Love  beat  his  rose-red  wings  in 
vain;  he  could  not  overtake  the  coach; 
for  the  coach  was  fate ;  all  was  over ;  his 
dusty  feet  halted  in  the  heat  of  the  dusty 
road;  "Good-by!  .  .  .  Good-by,  for 
ever!" 

Days  became  weeks,  weeks  months, 
months  grew  into  years ;  she  never  came 
again.  She  passed  through  the  con 
vent's  sheltering  door,  was  safe  from 
mischance  and  folly;  passed  into  a 
world  remote  of  unfamiliar  faces,  and 
forgot. 

God  made  memory  cruel,  that  men 
might  know  remorse;  but  the  Devil  de 
vised  f orgetfulness,  anodyne  of  regret. 

Reputed  heiress  to  vast  estates,  pro 
vided  with  boundless  means  and  gifted 
with  great  beauty,  coming  to  marriage- 
82 


MADAME  MARGOT 

able  age  in  all  the  freshness  of  her 
youthful  loveliness,  she  was  wedded  to 
a  wealthy  planter's  only  son  whose  love 
for  her  was  very  great. 

Pure  happiness  was  theirs  prolonged 
far  beyond  the  honeymoon.  Sur 
rounded  by  every  creature  comfort 
wealth  could  procure  or  affection  de 
vise,  secure  in  a  faithful  man's  unalter- 
ing  love,  she  dwelt  serene,  in  a  country 
where  the  fruits  of  the  earth  and  the 
flowers  of  the  forest  spread  natural 
loveliness  about  fields  of  unsurpassed 
fertility. 

She  never  knew  winter,  want,  nor 
war;  her  years  were  filled  with  peace; 
her  estates  increased  to  vast  propor 
tions  ;  a  thousand  slaves  were  happy,  be 
ing  hers.  Admired  for  her  beauty, 
greatly  loved,  she  returned  an  adoring 
husband's  devotion,  and  bore  him  child- 
83 


MADAME  MARGOT 

dren  with  eyes  like  the  morning  and  hair 
like  wreathed  flames.  Her  daughters 
married  and  were  fruitful,  bearing  chil 
dren  fair  as  an  April  day,  with  eyes  like 
the  sky  of  the  morning.  For  them,  for 
her,  the  world  rolled  on  in  unperturbed 
peace. 

But  she  never  saw  her  golden  lad 
again. 


Something  inscrutable,  deeper  than 
whim,  had  come  over  Margot  Lagoux. 
Her  work  was  oddly  altered:  it  had 
more  air,  less  ease;  more  spell,  less 
charm;  more  force,  and  less  dexterity. 
The  stuffs  she  chose  no  longer  were 
notable  for  the  exquisite,  wan  delicacy 
which  so  becomes  the  pallor  of  high 
bred  beauty;  she  took  an  incomprehen 
sible  joy  in  vivid  color;  but  what  was 
84 


MADAME  MARGOT 

gained  in  vividness  was  lost  in  harmony. 
Her  work  retained  distinction,  but  of  a 
queer  sort;  reserve  gave  way  to  novelty; 
simple  beauty  was  replaced  by  mere 
tricious  charm;  her  taste,  which  had 
been  perfect,  seemed  suffering  gradual 
corruption;  her  craft  was  marred  by 
crudities.  Her  turbans  began  to  look 
as  if  there  were  only  barbaric  plumes  in 
the  world,  of  parrakeets  and  cockatoos, 
trogons  and  flamingos,  gay  toucan 
wings,  and  extraordinary  quills;  florid 
colors  and  distempered  stains  were 
mingled  in  inharmonious  contrast; 
mango-yellow,  peacock-green,  Egyp 
tian  blue,  and  Congo  scarlet,  flaunted 
their  discordant  tones  together. 

Style  she  had ;  but  it  was  style  malade 
du  rouvieux;  her  trade-mark  had  be 
come  gaucherie,  her  art  artifice;  good 
taste  had  departed.    Her  work  no  more 
85 


MADAME  MARGOT 

was  garnished,  but  bedizened  with  ex 
cess,  nowhere  restrained,  but  having 
unrestricted  vent  in  tawdry  fripperies. 
Her  handicraft  was  stamped  by  power 
and  energy  misapplied ;  the  sole  distinc 
tion  it  had  left  was  whimsical  device. 
Everything  she  did  was  like  sweet  wine 
soured,  the  worse  for  having  been  so 
much  better.  Her  bonnets  were  like 
songs  in  forced  falsetto,  every  line 
slurred  by  subtle  default,  every  sweet 
note  out;  always  too  much  or  too  little, 
never  the  happy  mean.  Even  the  pearls 
or  marguerites,  which  she  had  formerly 
employed  in  bordures  as  trade-marks 
of  her  craft,  had  become  cheap  beads  of 
colored  pottery  and  glass.  In  tarnished 
bowls,  in  corners  of  obscure  pawnshop 
windows,  among  the  dead  flies  and  the 
dust,  are  still  occasionally  to  be  found 
beads,  often  called  "margots"  or  "mar- 
86 


MADAME  MARGOT 

gotons,"  like  those  employed  by  Margot 
Lagoux  in  her  practice  of  millinery,  but 
said  to  be  thread-plummets  employed 
by  makers  of  lace.  One,  a  Greek  dealer 
in  old  gold  and  stolen  silver,  tells  the 
enquiring  traveler  that  these  are  Dead 
Sea  pebbles,  worn  to  their  peculiar 
shapes  by  the  ceaseless  fret  of  that 
gloomy  sea.  But  beads  like  them,  gro 
tesques,  baroques,  were  laced  on  toques 
and  turbans  of  her  make,  and  now  and 
then  were  found  among  the  laces  on 
bonnets  which  had  no  need  of  them: 
men,  seeing  them,  narrowed  their 
glances,  and  took  new  note  of  the 
wearer.  Those  aware  permitted  none 
near  or  dear  to  adorn  her  person  with 
them. 

A  queerly  degenerated  taste  marked 
everything    that    Margot    did.    With 
singular   obliquity  she  set  everything 
87 


MADAME  MARGOT 

awry;  from  rich  goods  produced  un 
speakably  poor  results;  and  with  cheap 
cunning  vexed  priceless  stuffs  beyond 
recovery  or  repair. 

Her  custom  fell  from  vendre  cher  to 
bon  marche.  With  the  diminishing 
stream  of  patronage  the  material  in  her 
shop  went  down  from  velours  ras, 
velours  faponne,  and  velours  de  sole,  to 
velours  de  colon  and  colon  croise, 
from  velvet  to  velveteens.  The  air  of 
distinction  which  attracted  gentility 
utterly  faded  away;  the  coarse,  crude 
stuffs  and  rude  handiwork  repelled  the 
aristocratic.  Calls  for  her  work  became 
infrequent;  more  infrequent;  came  no 
more.  One  morning  the  milliner's 
shop  was  shut.  It  never  was  opened 
again.  The  stuffs  on  the  dusty  shelves 
grew  faded,  discolored,  and  stained; 
cobwebs  hung  from  the  mouldy  walls; 
88 


MADAME  MARGOT 

the  trade  which  had  known  and  fre 
quented  the  place  knew  it  no  more. 


But  out  of  this  end,  like  a  paradox, 
above  the  apparent  wreck  Margot  arose 
in  prosperity:  the  Devil  was  good  as 
his  word. 

She  dwelt  in  a  massive  great  house,  a 
mansion,  handsome,  stately,  and  som 
ber,  by  a  courtyard  paved  in  marble, 
approached  through  a  vaulted  tunnel  lit 
by  a  dull-flaming  torch  and  closed  by 
an  iron  gate.  From  the  side  of  the  court 
a  staircase  of  marble  rose  to  her  private 
door,  ornate  as  a  public  office's  entry 
and  massively  carved  in  flowers;  stairs 
within,  of  blue-veined  marble,  went 
up  through  wide  corridors  heavily 
panelled  in  dark  Spanish  wood.  Be 
neath  the  house  vast  cellars  boomed  and 
89 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

echoed;  the  chimneys  rose  like  turrets 
grouped  against  the  darkling  sky.  The 
house  throughout  was  furnished  with 
every  luxury  befitting  persons  of  cir 
cumstance:  broad  hearths  for  the  burn 
ing  of  long  wood  in  winter,  vaulted  cor 
ridors,  burnished  fittings  of  latten,  and 
jalousies  of  saffron- wood  with  retaining 
rosettes  of  porcelain;  mahogany  tables 
of  rare  design,  deep-carved,  and 
adorned  with  brass.  Curtains  of  saf 
fron-colored  silk  cinctured  with  gold 
braid  hung  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor 
in  heavy  golden  folds.  Day  was  made 
night,  night  day  by  many  subterfuges, 
with  blinds  and  saffron  jalousies  ironed 
fast  against  the  noon.  By  night  the 
light  shone  out  to  the  red  stars,  and  the 
house  was  full  of  the  swift,  rich  sweep 
ing  of  heavy  silk  curtains  waved  by  the 
wind,  and  the  glow  of  the  wax  candles 
90 


MADAME  MARGOT 

chequered  the  courtyard  below  with 
gold.  In  the  middle  of  the  courtyard, 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  a  fountain 
played  in  a  yellow  basin,  with  a  pleas 
ant,  incessant  noise  of  whispering  green 
water,  falling  perpetually  with  a  deli 
cate  patter  over  seven  brown  stone  dol 
phins,  spouting  from  whose  pouted 
mouths  went  up  contending  streams; 
the  waters  gushed,  white-laced,  bab 
bling,  from  the  green-coppered  vents  in 
the  dolphins'  mouths,  and  descended  in 
spray  to  the  bowl  below ;  and  under  the 
bowl  the  drain-pipe  murmured  subter 
ranean  cool.  About  the  courtyard 
stood  a  row  of  crimson-flowered  pome 
granate-trees :  through  the  split  brown 
rinds  the  garnet  pulp  and  silver  seeds 
showed,  clotted  thick  as  crystals  in  a 
stone;  and  purple  fruits  in  heavy  clus 
ters,  of  myriad,  uncounted  drupes,  hung 
91 


MADAME  MARGOT 

from  the  superior  privets  ranged  along 
the  courtyard  wal!1  dropping  green 
shadows,  like  vast  laces,  over  the  blind- 
arched  bricks  below.  A  garden  lay  be 
yond  the  court,  its  gate  hung  thick  and 
deep  with  yellow  roses,  clinging  to  the 
iron  lantern,  drooping  and  swaying  in 
unconstrained  festoons.  Beyond  the 
garden  the  place  debouched  into  a  for 
gotten  graveyard. 

By  night  alive,  by  day  the  place  was 
sunk  in  dreams,  with  lavish  beauty 
everywhere  composed  to  sleep  in  sunlit 
sloth,  luxurious  and  deep.  The  place 
seemed  fallen  in  a  trance.  The  pigeons 
dozed  along  the  eaves ;  and  on  the  grass 
below,  where  the  garden  stretched,  the 
peacock  slowly  danced  his  stiff  and 
stately  dance,  an  iris  feather  bubble, 
green  as  jade,  purple  as  wine,  blue  as 
lazuli.  The  courtyard  seemed  the  very 
92 


MADAME  MARGOT 

home  of  sleep.  The  sun  lay  stupid  on 
the  silent  walls  and  drowsily  beat  on  the 
blue-doored  cellars  shut  with  cautious 
bars,  closed  fast  and  locked  beneath  the 
arcaded  porch ;  the  shadows  of  the  slim 
pillars  slept  in  the  graceful  galleries. 
All  was  hushed  but  the  peacock's  cry, 
while  that  iridescent  bubble,  on  toes 
black  as  ebony,  danced,  here  and  there, 
there  and  here,  his  slow  "pavone" 
among  the  yellow  roses. 

By  night  beneath  the  windows  an 
cient  tombs  bared  their  sculptured 
breasts  to  the  stars  and  stared  up  at 
the  golden  arches;  and  dank,  black, 
cracked  sarcophagi,  chequered  with 
light,  laid  broad  their  time-worn,  sculp 
tured  emblems  and  tragical  inscriptions, 
— skulls  with  wings,  and  urns,  and 
hour-glasses  whose  un-refluent,  palsied 
sands  meet  measure  of  eternity  kept 
93 


MADAME  MARGOT 

with  motionless  registry,  and  stony  gar 
lands  of  stone  flowers  which  never 
bloomed,  nor  ever  were  sweet,  as  that 
beneath  them  had  been  sweet  to  man's 
all  quivering  sense.  Here  lay  the  long 
dead,  day  and  night,  communicant  in 
death;  and  wraiths  of  old  unhappiness 
rose  sighing  with  regret,  or  dreamed, 
beneath  the  stones,  of  love  as  futile  as 
regret.  The  wind  among  the  tomb 
stones,  like  a  stream  from  a  windy  foun 
tain,  murmured  among  the  pomegran 
ate-trees,  stirred  the  shadows  under  the 
privets,  rustled  between  the  silken  cur 
tains,  whispering,  much  as  dead  men 
do,  chill,  wordless,  fluttering  breaths  of 
unsolved  mystery.  And  when  the  wind 
from  the  graveyard  whispered,  all  the 
place  stood  listening,  hushed.  The  wind 
from  the  graveyard  whispered  among 
the  saffron  curtains ;  the  ceaseless  f oun- 
94 


MADAME  MARGOT 

tain  waters  fell;  else  all  was  still  but  the 
peacock's  wild  night-cry,  sounding 
through  the  unfathomable  silence  like 
the  rending  of  an  illusion, — deep  and 
singular  and  strange, — by  a  harsh 
trumpet's  blast.  Heh!  The  Devil 
keeps  his  promises  in  the  way  that  suits 
him  best. 

N 

M  argot's  existence  here  was  a  thing 
apart  from  everything  plebeian:  she 
was  immensely  wealthy ;  had  riches  such 
as  are  won  by  few,  though  sought  by 
many,  plantations  in  the  country, 
houses  in  town,  money  on  call  in  quan 
tity  that  made  great  bankers  bow; 
women  to  wait  upon  her,  deferential 
men,  boys  to  run  at  her  beck,  maid 
servants,  bond  and  free,  to  go  before 
her;  her  cellar  was  famous  for  its  wines, 
95 


MADAME  MARGOT 

her  dress  for  its  wild  and  extravagant 
beauty;  all  that  she  touched  she  took; 
all  that  she  took  she  kept;  everything 
that  she  kept  increased  beyond  the 
bounds  of  reason;  she  was  spoken  to 
with  deference  and  referred  to  with 
finesse.  She  had  her  carriage,  lined 
with  silk,  with  yellow  hammer-cloths 
and  bands ;  in  the  license  of  her  beauty 
she  laughed  at  sumptuary  laws,  and  in 
her  illegal  equipage  rolled  insolently 
on;  in  amber  gown  and  canary  turban 
fastened  with  a  golden  brooch,  despite 
the  law,  she  rode  the  streets  like  a 
charioted  queen ;  or,  dressed  in  wild,  un 
studied  colors  such  as  are  used  in 
Barbary,  she  wandered  in  her  garden  in 
the  after-hours  of  the  day,  making 
wreaths  of  the  saffron  roses,  a  cockatoo 
upon  her  arm  the  color  of  a  wild  peach 
flower. 

96 


MADAME  MARGOT 

A  shapely,  splendid  creature,  with 
her  handsome,  heavy  hands,  neck  like  a 
tower,  glorious  hair  hanging  rich  be 
neath  its  turban,  her  embroidered  robe 
but  carelessly  worn  and  recklessly  ad- 
justed^ — oddly,  the  coarser  the  more 
becoming, — a  goddess  made  of  beauti 
ful  earth,  but  coarse  as  the  cotton- 
flower,  with  confident  face  and  insolent 
mien  she  took  her  way  through  the 
streets  with  a  supple  stride  which  was 
the  despair  of  envious  rivalry;  hers  was 
a  regal  beauty  like  the  tiger's  loveli 
ness. 

With  her  face  like  beauty  seen  in 
dreams,  incredible  and  untrue,  she  went 
through  the  community  like  a  lovely 
malady:  even  wise  men's  souls  were 
troubled;  sturdy  hearts  that  had 
laughed  at  passion  shook  with  the  fair 
ness  of  her  face;  piety  was  troubled  by 
97 


MADAME  MARGOT 

her  golden  loveliness.  More  than  one 
sermon  from  Solomon's  Song  was  in 
spired  by  Rita  Lagoux ;  she  was  known 
as  the  woman  with  a  face  like  a  beauti 
ful  blasphemy. 

Time  but  increased  the  wildness  and 
singularity  of  her  beauty:  it  was  gos 
siped  about  in  the  market-stalls ;  it  was 
babbled  about  in  the  streets. 

Then  a  torpor  fell  on  her  loveliness, 
a  dull  and  leaden  look;  her  beauty  grew 
sullen  and  lowering  as  the  flame  of  a 
fallen  fire.  Though  not  much  altered 
in  appearance  she  was  somehow  greatly 
changed.  Her  looks  had  lost  some 
thing,  no  one  could  say  what,  gained 
something  none  could  define.  It  was 
not  that  she  was  less  the  unforgettable 
being  she  had  been,  or  that  her  sullen 
beauty  made  less  mark  on  memory,  but 
that  the  ecstasy  of  beauty  was  replaced 
98 


MADAME  MAEGOT 

by  a  queer  unrest.  Though  as  never 
before  she  was  possessed  of  a  singular 
comeliness,  men  began  to  regard  her 
with  an  odd  uneasiness:  there  was  a 
foreignness  in  her  face,  and  the  look  of 
alien  things. 

She  looked  like  a  portrait  of  herself 
painted  in  irony. 

On  the  day  that  her  daughter  was 
married  in  far-away  New  Orleans, 
Margot  stood  motionless  by  her  mirror, 
staring  at  her  own  reflection.  The  day 
seemed  oddly  overcast.  Suddenly  she 
burst  into  wild,  shrill  laughter,  cheer 
less  and  tragic,  her  body  shaking,  her 
hands  wrung  together,  turned  away 
with  an  epithet,  reversed  the  glass,  and 
never  looked  into  a  mirror  again. 
Something  had  passed  across  her  face 
like  a  strange,  ambiguous  stain. 

A  shadow  had  fallen  upon  her  like 
99 


MADAME  MARGOT 

an  unexpected  dusk,  or  the  dimness  un 
der  a  passing  cloud,  and  had  overcast 
her  beauty. 

Not  time  with  his  pinching  seam,  nor 
age  with  its  ugliness,  but  a  subtle  and 
more  peculiar  change  had  come  over 
Margot  Lagoux. 

There  is  a  half-light  in  the  hour  of 
an  eclipse  which  casts  a  weird  spell  on 
the  world,  when  the  sun  is  but  a  narrow 
crescent  at  high  noon  and  the  earth 
grows  oddly  dim  in  an  untimely  dusk. 
Such  a  dusk  was  fallen  upon  Margot 
Lagoux. 

Sultry  beauty  such  as  hers  has  ever 
an  early  afternoon  ;*  but  this  was  more 
than  sultry  beauty's  early  afternoon. 
Not  day,  not  darkness  yet,  but  dusk 
went  with  her  everywhere  like  twilight 
in  the  woods.  The  sun  shone  brightly 
everywhere  along  a  sparkling  world, 
100 


MADAME 


but  on  Margot  lay  a  shadow,  strange 
and  sinister.  As  unbleached  muslin 
sallows  to  dingy  isabella,  as  metal  tar 
nishes  from  neglect,  as  white  paper 
dulls  in  the  sun,  as  the  spot  on  bruised 
fruit  turns  brown,  Margot  Lagoux  was 
changing;  she  was  becoming  tawny, 
swart,  bisblanc  as  the  Creoles  say.  Her 
golden-ruddy  cheeks  had  turned  a  mor 
bid  olive-brown  as  if  a  somber  fountain 
were  playing  in  her  blood. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  day 
on  whom  fate  laid  dreadful  hands: 
Louise  Briaud,  who  was  blinded  by 
smallpox;  Fanchette  Bourie,  whom 
God  pitied  with  death;  Helene  Riche- 
mont,  the  leper;  Floride  Biez,  Doucie 
Baramont,  Francesca  Villeponteaux, 
wrecked  by  disfiguring  maladies.  God 
give  them  peace !  But  on  none  was  laid 
101 


MARGOT 

so  ruthless,  unrelenting,  deliberate  a 
hand  as  fell  upon  Rita  Lagoux. 

She  changed  like  a  portrait  whose 
shadows,  painted  in  bitumen,  have 
struck  through  and  distempered  the 
rest.  Like  a  strange,  nocturnal  crea 
ture  she  seemed  to  absorb  the  gloom. 
Her  glorious  eyes  grew  jaundiced;  her 
rose-brown  lips  grew  dun;  the  delicate 
webs  that  joined  her  fingers  grew  yel 
low  as  bakers'  saffron.  Malice  laughed 
at  her  thickening  lips. 

Weeks  turned  months,  months  years ; 
swarthy  she  grew  and  ugly.  She  put 
aside  beauty  as  a  worn,  bright  garment, 
and  took  on  grotesquery  stark  and 
medieval  as  a  Chinese  teak-wood  carv 
ing.  She  became  both  grotesque  and 
contorted,  gross,  misshapen,  sullied 
and  debased.  The  old  enchantment  was 
gone  like  a  necromancer's  spell.  The 
102 


MADAME  MARGOT 

perfect  gait  had  faltered  down  to  a 
lurching  trot,  a  hurrying  waddle  with 
an  irregular,  unsure  motion,  hesitating 
a  moment,  then  hastening  on  with  vague 
uncertainty.  Her  soft,  sleepy  laugh 
had  grown  violent,  her  melodious  voice 
coarse;  of  her  fair  face  there  was  noth 
ing  left,  no,  not  remembrance  even. 

A  young  man  came  to  her  threshold 
one  morning  and  looked  in  eagerly;  he 
would  speak  with  Margot  Lagoux :  but 
"Is  that  Margot  Lagoux?"  he  asked,  a 
curious  look  coming  over  his  face, — that 
woman,  obese,  with  low  brows,  huge  fat 
eyelids,  round  bare  forehead,  short, 
strained  and  corded  neck  enormously 
thick,  yellowed  teeth  irregularly  shown 
between  thick,  sallowed  lips,  cheeks 
wrinkled,  flecked  and  blotched  with 
brown  like  spotted  peaches.  "No!"  he 
said,  hastily,  shrinking  away.  "That  is 
103 


MADAME  MARGOT 

not  the  woman  I  mean.  The  woman  I 
meant  was  comely  .  .  .  and  had  a  beau 
tiful  daughter  named  Gabrielle!"  He 
turned  away,  shuddering. 

She  wore  old  rags  for  robes,  an  old 
freloche  upon  her  head,  in  nowise  re 
straining  the  unkempt  coils  of  her  hair 
hanging  matted  upon  her  neck.  Her 
cheeks  hung  slack  and  dark  and  dingy; 
her  lusterless  locks  were  felted  into  a 
tangled  web  that  had  grown  gray  with 
lint;  her  frowsy  chin  was  stained  as 
with  walnut  hulls.  She  wis  falling 
apart  like  an  old  house  with  nobody  liv 
ing  in  it,  swore  black  oaths  with  a  foul 
mouth,  cursed  all  who  crossed  her  path, 
ate  like  a  beast  food  fit  for  beasts,  her 
fevered  sun  of  glory  set, — gone,  gone, 
gone.  Down  she  went,  like  the  stuffs 
in  her  shop,  from  velours  ras  to  colon 
croise,  down,  down  to  oblivion,  down  to 
104 


MADAME  MARGOT 

the  dusty  corner  of  death.    She  spat  in 
the  dirt : ff  Je  m'en  fiche!"  she  said. 


She  hated  a  priest,  and  never  knelt 
at  a  confessional  again. 

She  did  not  die  in  the  great  house 
where  she  had  passed  the  days  of  her 
power;  every  place  she  dwelt  in  sank 
into  decay,  the  swifter  where  its  integ 
rity  seemed  permanent  and  secure; 
nothing  purged  the  ambiguous  spell 
which  dragged  them  down  together  to 
the  dust.  The  great  house  stood  a  ruin 
above  a  ruined  court,  a  wreck  of  its  for 
mer  pride  and  splendor,  black  and  foul ; 
the  fountain  had  fallen  long  ago,  its 
pipes  strangled  and  eaten  away  to 
crusts  of  lead  and  thready  ribs  of  iron 
in  the  sand.  Lilac  lane  was  gone;  there 
was  no  lane  there  any  more,  and  had 
105 


MADAME  MARGOT 

been  none  for  years ;  there  was  no  trace 
of  where  it  ran,  its  hedge-rows  or  its 
gardens,  or  of  Margot's  cottage  other 
than  a  mouldering  heap  of  broken 
brick,  bleak  rafters  of  the  fallen  roof, 
and  one  stark,  fallen  gable;  of  Gabri- 
elle's  garden  nothing  remained. 

Margot  died  in  a  dirty  hovel  in  an 
unkempt  alleyway,  in  the  midst  of  a 
negro  quarter,  where,  if  one  beat  a 
drum  or  caused  an  instrument  of  an  or 
chestra  to  sound,  the  people  swarmed 
from  the  tenements  like  ants  out  of  a 
hill.  The  place  was  fallen  and  foul,  and 
rilled  with  beggary;  and  that  is  the  end 
of  a  tenement;  for  beggars  are  like  dis 
temper,  the  place  where  they  have  lived 
is  hard  to  cure.  All  the  houses  in  the 
alley  were  filthy;  but  none  was  filthy 
as  hers. 

There  was  a  tremendous  storm  that 
106 


MADAME  MARGOT 

night.  Her  house  was  ablaze  with  light ; 
the  little  tailor  who  lived  next  door  said, 
"Aha!  Mother  Go-go  has  company!" 
But  the  only  person  seen  was  one  of 
the  religious  sort,  a  tall  man,  with  a 
face  like  an  unpleasant  taste. 

The  thunder  was  terrific;  the  storm 
wild  beyond  compare.  The  wind  blew 
with  a  sound  like  wild,  gigantic  laugh 
ter.  "Ff-ff-ff!"  went  the  gale;  the 
gusts  howled  through  the  tailor's  house ; 
the  whole  place  shook;  the  blinds 
banged  and  crashed;  the  wind  wailed, 
and  sucked  down  the  chimney  with  a 
sound  like  awful  weeping;  the  little 
tailor's  soul  was  filled  with  a  sense  of 
enormous  terror. 

All  night  long  the  thunder  rolled  like 
the  laughter  of  an  angry  god.  Dis 
lodged  by  the  tremendous  concussions 
the  cockroaches  flew  out  of  the  walls; 
107 


MADAME  MARGOT 

and,  in  the  morning,  after  the  storm, 
the  parrakeets  which  lived  in  the  trees 
were  all  turned  gray  as  ashes. 

The  windows  and  doors  of  Old 
Mother  Go-go's  house  were  standing 
open  wide.  It  was  plain  that  they  had 
stood  open  all  night,  and  that  the  rain 
had  beaten  into  the  house  unopposed. 

This,  however,  occasioned  but  brief 
surprise.  When  they  peered  in  at  the 
door  the  rats  were  playing  around  the 
floor  with  the  beads  of  a  broken  rosary. 

A  priest  came,  hurrying  in.  He  did 
not  stay  in  long.  When  he  came  out 
his  face  was  white  as  a  sheet  and  his 
lips  were  drawn  and  gray. 

Those  who  prepare  the  dead  came. 
They  stood  on  the  threshold  peeping 
and  queerly  looking  in  at  the  door. 

A  gray  mist  filled  the  place  like  a 
cloud,  through  which  things  were  visible. 
108 


MADAME  MARGOT 

The  rooms  were  damp  as  an  old  vault, 
and  full  of  a  death-like  smell;  the  walls 
were  covered  with  green  mould;  the 
woodwork  was  rotten.  The  candles  had 
guttered  and  dripped  and  gone  out ;  the 
floor  was  bespattered  with  tallow.  All 
around  the  rooms  were  coffers  of  linen 
and  lace,  "coffres  tres  beaux,  coffres 
mignons,  de  dressouer  compagnons; 
coffres  de  boys  qui  point  n  empire; 
madres  et  jaunes  comme  cire"  All  the 
coffers  were  open,  and  everything  that 
was  in  them  was  tossed  wildly  about  the 
floor;  not  one  piece  of  the  lovely  old 
stuffs,  as  yellow  as  wax,  but  was  black 
ened  by  showers  of  soot  and  trampled 
under  foot  by  the  neighbor's  goat,  the 
print  of  whose  hoofs  was  everywhere. 

And  Madame  Margot? 

Heh!  God  had  designed  her  for 
tragedy;  but  here  was  comedy.  Mar- 
109 


MADAME  MARGOT 

got  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor,  as 
black  as  ebony;  dead,  among  the  ashes 
and  soot,  charred  like  a  fallen  star. 

The  coroner  found  that  the  woman 
had  died  of  the  visitation  of  God;  but 
Doe  Gou,  the  tailor,  said  simply,  "Has 
God  feet  like  a  goat?" 

The  bishop  refused  to  have  masses 
said  for  the  repose  of  her  pitiful  soul; 
and  they  would  not  allow  her  to  be 
buried  in  St.  Sebastian's  graveyard. 
The  potter's  field  was  the  place  for  her; 
'her  color  was  too  peculiar. 

Too  black  to  be  buried  among  the 
white,  too  white  to  lie  down  with  the 
black,  she  was  buried,  in  secret,  in  her 
own  garden,  under  the  magnolia-trees. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  Madame 
Margot. 


110 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  PIN¥OP  25  CENTS 


LD  21-100w-7,'33 


YA  08779 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


